


House of Cards

by Ludi_Ling



Series: House of Cards [1]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Assassination, BAMF Remy, Complete, Darkfic, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends of Humanity, Honey traps (Espionage), Infidelity, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Mutant Hate, Mutant Registration Act, Mutant Rights, Mutant Trafficking, One True Pairing, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Apocalypse, Promiscuity, Remy has commitment issues, Resistance, Sabotage, Sexual Content, Soulmates, Trask Technologies, Trigger Warnings, True Love, Undercover As Prostitute, Undercover Missions, Violence, timestream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2007-03-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 154,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludi_Ling/pseuds/Ludi_Ling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The X-Men are dead, mutants are oppressed. In the aftermath of the mutant massacre that started with the mysterious murder of Senator Edward Kelly, Rogue is forced to work underground with a fragmented form of Mystique's Brotherhood.  With all her friends and family dead, she has little left to live for - until she discovers that a certain Cajun thief she once knew is still alive.  Are five days in four years ever going to be enough to get close to someone when the world and even your life are crumbling around you? </p><p>Part 1 of an epic trilogy set in the Days of Future Past (comicverse) timeline. Darkfic.  NOW ILLUSTRATED!  COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The likelihood is that all the characters you recognise belong to Marvel. And that all the ones you don't recognise belong to me. Mine, all mine!
> 
> Rating: This story, in its entirety, is rated M for strong language, sex, violence, and all that bad/good stuff. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> Author note: This story takes place in the Days of Future Past timeline, or a version thereof. Technically speaking if this was the 'real' DoFP timeline Rogue and Gambit would be a lot older than they are depicted in this story, but I took liberal smatterings of creative license when I wrote this, and since I've never read any of the DoFP arc I made up a whole bunch of stuff. Purists, please forgive me.
> 
> This was meant to be the 8th chapter of 'Threads', but as you can see it metamorphosed into something huge and uncontrollable and I hope it somewhat makes up for the sad lack of updates on 'Threads'.
> 
> Thanks: To Angy, my dear friend; thanks for helping me and supporting me from the very beginning, and for being my number 1 fan! You're a truly special person! To Randi, who kicked me out of my hermit's cave, and who had the bravery and patience to beta this entire fic all by her lonesome. I owe you one, hon. Or maybe a million. ;) To my muses - you know who you are. You're firmly ensconced in my fave lists. :D To EVERYONE who has read and supported my fics in ANY way over the years - I wouldn't carry on without you guys. :) And to my dad, who encouraged me to write in the first place.

_Summer 2006_

Colonel Lance Saunders marched up the hill with the purposeful stride of a man for whom walking was a necessary irritation, an exorbitant means of getting from A to Z. There was an abstract look on his thin, pale face as he walked, a look of self-contained disquiet, of endless inner distress. His was an expression that lacked any particular age or defining quality, the kind of countenance one would glance at and forget a split-second later, that of a man in a perpetual coma. His body was long and thin and ungainly; his legs moved with an almost lethargic, mechanical precision. Only his eyes were alive, darting back and forth, here and there with an alacrity that was quite divorced from the rest of his ineffectual being.

He moved like a man with a purpose, and yet possessed the look of a man for whom purpose had long held very little meaning.

The colonel sighed, irritable and yet with an undisguised measure of helplessness. There was very little that surprised him anymore; indeed, over the years there were few things he still regarded with sympathy. And yet today, for the first time in many decades he had been shaken to the core, and his expression of preoccupied abstraction showed it. He crested the hill with an increasing sense of agitation, his long legs jerking back and forth with the twitching impression of a nervous tic.

Once at the top he stopped, frowned morosely, and looked around.

The mansion that had once stood at 1407 Graymalkin Lane was now nothing more than a smoking pile of debris and rubble, a decrepit skeleton of the magnificent building it had once been. Dusk was drawing on into night; the contorted husk of the mansion cast gnarled shadows out over the hill in a sinister array of broken patterns that clawed at the colonel as if onto its final lifeline.

But there was no saving this mansion now. It had taken many years, but at last its singular fight was over.

"These Sentinels certainly know how to do their job," the colonel murmured wondrously - yet not a little begrudgingly - to himself.

A little way off, in what appeared to be the gutted shell of a study, a little pocket of soldiers was bustling around a human-sized bundle lying on the floor. As soon as the colonel had made his appearance, one of the men had broken away from the party and had begun to walk over. When he was within a foot or so of the colonel, he saluted - which Saunders returned rather half-heartedly - before addressing his superior in a faintly troubled tone.

"Colonel, it's a surprise to see you. I thought -"

"You thought wrongly," Saunders retorted tartly, looking the young soldier up and down with a thinly disguised distaste. The boy was barely out of his teens, thin and sallow-faced, with an unsuccessful attempt at dignity flickering over his face.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man replied in an obsequious tone, "it's just that you said -"

"There's been a change of plan," Saunders replied flatly. His eyes danced about with a frenetic energy that may have been mistaken for nervousness, but was more to do with a propensity for eagle-eyed attentiveness than anything else. "I take it  _that_  is the  _specimen_ ," he spoke, indicating to the human-sized bundle still lying motionlessly on the study-floor several feet away.

"Yes, sir," the young man nodded. "Would you… would you like to take a look?"

Saunders regarded him a moment. He was still all but a child, he thought with a cursory stab at sympathy. Nervous, tremulous, and unused to bloodshed. Several body bags had been laid out in a neat, orderly row a little way down the hill, which the young man was very poignantly ignoring. The stench of blood and burning flesh still permeated the cool night air, but Saunders was used to it and he didn't flinch.

"Yes," he replied at last, decidedly. "I'd like to."

The young cadet led him past a smoking pile of bloodstained rubble and into the heart of the gutted study. Broken books still lay scattered about the floor, Nietzche and Jung fanning pages both battered and bloody; notes on genetics and DNA drifted across the wooden floorboards like ash, lost tokens of a great professor's remarkable intellect. His legacy, scattered to the wind.  _How ironic_ , Saunders thought, this time without a trace of sympathy.  _Professor Charles Xavier and his great dream, crumbled all to dust. Oh how the mighty have fallen!_

Soldiers were parting and saluting in the good colonel's wake; he stopped, returned the greeting, and ordered them to leave with a bored, flippant bark. At last only the young cadet was left, hovering nearby, uncertain about his own place in the grand scheme of things. Only when Saunders shot the young man a meaningful glare did he nod curtly and join his superior beside the now unattended human-sized bundle on the floor.

He coughed lightly, awkwardly, a polite preliminary to business-like formality.

"She's unconscious," he explained matter-of-factly. "We found her underneath the rubble just outside the study. One of our men shot her."

Saunders looked down.

The woman lying on the stretcher was young - probably not much more than twenty-one. All vestiges of prettiness had been drained from her pallid, drawn and bloodstained face; and yet in the delicate nose, in the clear brow, in the passionate and as yet untested lips there was an underlying prettiness that already seemed marred by more than mere cuts and bruises. The white streaks that ran through her cinnamon-coloured hair were caked with blood and dirt. As Saunders gazed down upon her, his face seemed to flare into activity for a mere split second; his mouth jerked, his throat tightened, his brow creased, and the agitated eyes grew wider. But it was only for a split second - within a moment he had become expressionless once more.

"And she hasn't awakened at all?" he asked in the same, deadpan voice.

"We don't expect she will, sir," the young cadet replied grimly.

The colonel considered this a moment.

"We should take her in for tests, just the same," he returned at last, decidedly. "After all, with these mutants, it's hard to tell when they're really dead or not." He paused, stared up at the young man again with an oddly intent look. "And Xavier?" he questioned quickly, almost furtively.

"Dead, sir," came the indifferent reply.

"And the others?"

"All dead, apart from this one."

A shadow seemed to cross Saunders' face; he stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Then perhaps," he murmured reflectively, "when and if she wakes, she will wish that she had followed them." He did not stop to explain himself, but turned quickly; the young cadet was suddenly most surprised and a little disturbed to see two tall and peculiarly silent male paramedics - one tall, blond and lanky, the other tall, dark and burly - standing dutifully a little way behind the colonel, both of whom, up until that very moment, he hadn't noticed before. "Take her," the colonel ordered them peremptorily.

The two men moved forward, each at either end of the stretcher, and hoisted the woman up with an easy flick of the arms. The young cadet looked ruffled.

"But, sir… I thought I was meant to wait for-"

"This doesn't concern the feds," Saunders replied coldly, as the two men carted the woman back down the hill. "We've been ordered to take her to a military hospital. You are relieved of your post. Get back to barracks and make your report."

The cadet still looked uneasy, but gave a formal salute and shuffled off. Saunders hardly noticed. He was already following the two men back down the hill with an inscrutable look on his inscrutable face.

-oOo-

At the bottom of the hill an ambulance was already waiting. Saunders threw open the back doors whilst the two paramedics loaded the young woman inside and hastily connected her to a drip and a heart monitor with the practised air of the professional. Saunders surveyed this all with a stony silence, and when they were finished, he nodded and curtly addressed the two medics.

"Good work. Dominic, St. John, get up front and take the wheel. I'll stay with her. You'll need to be fast, my friends, but please - drive carefully. Our cargo is precious."

The tall, burly man nodded wordlessly. Saunders stepped up into the recesses of the ambulance, whilst the two men closed the doors on him, one by one.

_Clang_.

Saunders was shut inside with the mutant.

The two medics stared briefly at one another.

"I still say we shoulda left a traitor like her to rot with the rest of those X-freaks," the blond man remarked sulkily in a broad Australian accent. "You think she'll even make it?"

"She never will if we don't start drivin'," the other replied, low and severe. "And if she doesn't, it's our heads on a freakin' platter, St. John. Get your ass up front. I'll take the wheel."

So saying he walked round the ambulance to the driver's seat; St. John grimaced to no one in particular and gave a mock salute.

"Yes, sir," he muttered caustically.

-oOo-

The ambulance started with a jolt; in the back, wires and fixings swung ominously in the dim half-light that buzzed and flickered mutinously from a single light fixture above. Saunders was leaning over the patient with an odd tenderness on his featureless face. It was with a gentleness quite unexpected in the staunch and severe colonel that he reached out and stroked the girl's pallid cheek with the back of his wiry hand.

"Welcome back, my child," he whispered.

"Let us only hope that she  _will_ return to us, Raven," a mild, serene, yet faintly distinguished voice observed from the corner. Saunders looked up sharply, his ever-vigilant gaze finally falling on a little old lady sitting quite placidly in the shadows at the corner of the ambulance. His face darkened somewhat, his mouth holding the faintest trace of bitterness.

"How could it have been allowed to go this far, Irene," he commented grievously, "that she was almost killed! I thought you'd guaranteed -"

"You forget, Raven," the old woman returned, this time gravely. "I make no guarantees. Time itself cannot allow guarantees. What matters is that she is alive. By a thread that may be broken at any moment, granted - but she is still with us, at the very least."

She paused, frowning a little, her face wreathed for the first time in the shadows of uncertainty as her wrinkled features oscillated under the swinging light. She was a small, spare woman, apparently in her sixties, dressed in a plain, old burgundy dress suit with a prim and fussy lace collar; her grey hair was tied back in a severe bun, and where the colonel's eyes were constantly active, hers remained blank and unblinking behind rose-tinted glasses.

"You were right, at least," he finally replied, stiffly. "She  _was_ there."

"And the others are dead," Irene stated with a tone of resigned yet calm finality.

Saunders' eyes flickered briefly as he looked on the girl still lying, motionless on the stretcher.

"Yes," he answered at last, unwillingly and somewhat petulantly. "Not that I give a shit about Xavier and those other self-righteous bastards, but…"

"I said that others would be there," Irene finished serenely, "and there weren't."

This time the colonel looked up at her, and as he did so, a strange thing happened to his face - its features, the hunted eyes, the hooked nose, the discontented mouth - each seemed to shift subtly, melt, and slowly to reform itself, and then, almost within the blink of an eye, the colonel was gone and replaced with a woman, a dark-haired woman with skin almost as pale as that of the young girl lying on the stretcher; her eyes were grey and hard, and her mouth almost as unforgiving as the colonel's had been. She was beautiful, or had once been - it was difficult to tell. And though there was barely a wrinkle on her face, there was the distinct quality of  _age_  about her.

"You have rarely been wrong before," this strange woman noted pointedly - her voice held the glacial tone of an icicle, "and never about something as important as  _this_."

The old woman named Irene didn't seem in the least concerned about the peculiar transformation Saunders seemed to have undergone. If anything she appeared not to have noticed it at all.

"In this game we play, Raven," she merely murmured softly, "one can never be  _quite_  sure just  _how_  things are going to turn out. You and I both know that, my love."

"You told me there were supposed to be three of them," Raven hissed accusingly. "Where were the others tonight? Why could we not save  _them_?"

"Perhaps they have already been saved," Irene answered evenly. "Only not by us. Always you are too impatient, Raven. Let Time play its hand. No doubt events will unfold as they are meant to. The other two shall, in time, return."

"But you said we would find the others here,  _tonight_ ," the other retorted accusingly; but Irene merely chuckled softly.

"You forget, my love, that the future is malleable, that there are certain variables in this game that my visions cannot take into account. I cannot see with any distinct clarity the shadows that lurk at the borders of this game, some of them master manipulators, those that twist events to their own subtle desires - just as we do." She paused, a small smile curling the corner of her withered lips. "At least we found that which we have always treasured most, my love." Her eyes shifted blandly, almost imperceptibly behind the dark shades. "At least we have  _her_."

Raven's ravenous eyes fell back to the face of the girl lying, still as unbroken water, upon the stretcher. There was a pendant round her neck - a butterfly crafted from white gold, its blue and green enamel wings chapped and dusty. Her brow furrowed, Raven reached out with a slender, curious hand and touched the small token, toying with it thoughtfully.

"Yes," she finally nodded in muted agreement. Her eyes became unfocused as she addressed the girl in a mere whisper: "How long has it been, my child? All those years of waiting have finally bled into  _this_." She raised her voice, addressing the little old woman in bitter tones; "She'll hate us for letting her live, Irene. And she will hate us even more for what we have planned for her."

The old woman's expression was grave.

"It is her destiny, Raven. It is what we sought her out for from the very beginning. And finally all those years of labour are starting to bear fruit."

Raven's eyes were suddenly dim.

"Really, Irene?" she asked quietly, an element of vulnerability suddenly breaking that indomitable voice.

And Irene replied: "Really, my love."

There was nothing more to be said. Outside the window the world rushed by, a world as untouchable and invisible to the woman named Irene as it was to the girl lying beside her on the stretcher. Nevertheless, she turned slightly, and it seemed that for a moment she could see beyond the glass, beyond the sea of houses and streets and bodies, beyond the impenetrable night and the moon and the stars, and into something else far, far away.

"That's right, my young thief," she whispered to herself. "Run away into the night, and take your shadow with you. You'll be back, soon enough. And as for you, my starchild… the future rushes towards you, and it will always find you, whether you wish to be found or not."


	2. Consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue wakes up from a 6-month coma to find the world has changed into a post-apocalyptic, Sentinel-ruled nightmare.

Her name was Rogue.

For a long time after she would not remember the events of that day; but she would dream of it often within the following months of feverish sleep - of running, of an almighty explosion; an explosion inside her back, white-hot, searing; of atoms fusing, burning, disintegrating…

Xavier had been killed.

She knew this because she had seen them kill him. She had heard the gunshots from afar and her and Rachel had gone running and they'd found him in his study just before the men with the guns had opened fire. Rachel had gone to him and she'd tried to pull her back and then everything had become chaotic and confused and then… Then there had been the explosion in her back.

There had been a curious moment where everything had ceased to exist. No matter, no time. Everything seemed to stretch infinitely, every moment seemed to bleed out into eternity, and for an instant that lasted forever she saw, she understood… She would never understand what she understood. Stars forming, bursting in front of her eyes, filling, falling into the black tidal wave, extinguished by the sea, one by one, by one…by…one…

And then there would be her, falling in after them, being put out forever.

But for her, on that day, forever and oblivion did not come.

She lived, where so many others did not.

And then there came a time when the sea of darkness parted, when she opened her eyes and saw light; when she saw beyond all doubt that she lived.

When she awoke from her coma, it was to the face of someone so familiar and yet so alien that she thought she had woken to a dream.

The smooth, porcelain features; the thin, hard lips; and the cold, calculating eyes that would never change, whichever face they graced.

"Mystique?"

Her voice was different, hoarse and high-pitched from disuse. There was not one iota of change in the face that hovered above her. It merely stared and said: "Rogue, my child. Welcome."

Welcome. Such a simple phrase, one that she did not think she would ever feel again. Her limbs felt transparent, gelatinous; her vision was blurred, and her mind felt as if it was filled with cobwebs. She tried to move a hand, and it felt leaden as a dead-weight; when she finally did manage to move it, the movement felt divorced from her own body, as though her brain was moving somebody else's arm. When she felt herself touch her forehead, it was almost a shock.

"Wait," she murmured in confusion. "Ah was at the mansion… The military attacked… Ah think they killed Xavier… And Rachel… Ah haveta get back…"

Something glinted like metal in the cold eyes that floated so disconcertingly above her.

"Yes," Mystique replied levelly. "The military attacked the mansion. Six months ago."

_Six months…_

There was somehow something preposterous about such a notion. It simply wasn't possible that anyone could sleep for so long. It had only been a split second, a few minutes at the most… She'd felt the impact, fallen, and the next moment, this…

Lying in a bed with Mystique looking down at her with those hard eyes, eyes that nevertheless were filled with something else. Bitterness. Sympathy. Rage. Hope. So many things…

Her head hurt. She didn't understand what it all meant.

"Six months?" She laughed weakly. "But it was just a moment ago. Ah was there… Where -?"

"They're dead," the thin lips declared with a dread finality that seemed to communicate to Rogue that it was no lie. And the eyes… the eyes never lied, not Raven's… Cold as they may be they never lied…

_They're dead._

It was as though all the coldness in Mystique's face seeped into Rogue herself; a frost was stealing under the numbness of her skin, sinking into her pores and her bones and her muscles, creeping over her organs with an icy hand and making her heart go cold.

If there was a moment when the old Rogue died, it was then.

"Dead?" she whispered. "But -"

"The military killed them," Mystique stated matter-of-factly, yet not without a trace of regret. "All of them. There are no others, Rogue. Only you."

She stood; the face became smaller, a pinpoint in the middle distance, glaring down on her with a brevity of expression that conveyed the dreadful truth to her.

"You're alive, Rogue," she told her with calm abruptness. "Get used to it."

The face disappeared from view, and a second later, she heard a door click shut.

All that she was left with was that snow white ceiling, one that would encompass her world for many days to come.

It was a long time before she found the tears to cry.

-oOo-

The next few days passed in a blur - even later, she would never be able to remember what she did, or what she thought, or how she survived those long, grinding hours of nothingness.

There was no comfort in that little room, and she lay there, shrouded in dimness during the day, wreathed in blackness during the night. There was only one small source of consolation, and she felt it lying, warm and light, against her chest, day in, day out. A butterfly pendant, resting close to her heartbeat, warmed by her body heat, as if she gave it sustenance, and it, in turn gave her the same… Sometimes, she would hold it, under the covers, run her fingers over the back of it, that thin sliver of white gold of which she knew every mark, every notch; and sometimes she'd run her fingers over the front, over the chips of smooth, glazed enamel, feeling the contours of the butterfly; wishing she could become one, wishing she could leave this bed, this room, this building, this world, this present… Wishing she could flutter away into sweet oblivion…

Some nights she would dream of it, she would dream of the silken touch of butterfly wings on her flesh, making her shudder, making her flush… The touch of a loved one, something she could never,  _would_ never feel… …

It was another three days before she found the strength to sit up, and when she did she found herself lying on a dusty bed in a ramshackle room inhabited by mangled furniture and cracked, peeling walls. She propped herself up against the headboard and looked around. What struck her first was the quietness of everything. There was barely a sound to be heard, apart from the innate creaking of the building itself - other than that there was none of the usual exterior sound: no traffic, no footsteps, no aeroplanes, no people talking or laughing, no nothing. No birdsong. There was something surreal about this soundless state, which gave the impression that perhaps she was still in a dream, or a nightmare - she couldn't tell. Just when she had digested the peculiarity of this, the distant wail of a siren sounded plaintively from somewhere outside, the only token of any outside life; it lingered a moment, indistinct and far-away, before faltering off out of earshot and into some place unknown.

A police siren.

There was a window by her bed, and, curiosity getting the better of her, she went to pull the threadbare and mouldy curtains aside, when footsteps on the wooden floors outside her bedroom interrupted her. Just as she dropped the curtain, the doorknob rattled, twisted, and the worm-eaten door gave way with a groan. She looked up.

It was Mystique.

"Ah," she said. "You're awake." She crossed the gap between the door and the bed with feline, graceful movements, with the stealth and elegance of the ninja, and sat down on a rickety chair beside Rogue; there was a bowl of something in her hand. It smelt good. "I brought you some food," she added.

It had been a few years since they'd last been in one another's company. Since then Mystique - or Raven Darkholme as she sometimes called herself - could have been any number of differing people. She certainly looked different now. What mattered was that on the inside she was always essentially the same. Ruthless, conniving, deadly and frighteningly unstable. Perhaps it was the fact that she had had to wear so many guises in her exceptionally long lifetime; over the years her personality had become so splintered that even she had little idea of what was Raven and what was not. She was only ever the sum of very many parts, never complete, never whole. As her one-time foster-daughter, Rogue knew just how wonderfully unhinged Raven could really be. And yet there was a calmness, a single-mindedness about her that could be quite disconcerting. Years of stealing other people's lives had turned her into something amoral and almost inhuman.

It was the thing Rogue had striven all her life never to become.

The form Raven chose to wear these days was like most of the forms she chose to wear - strong, proud, beautiful, yet somehow aloof and glacial at the same time. Both the body and face seemed young at first glance - but the features bore a stillness, a wisdom that seemed uncharacteristic of a young person. There was a coolness in the eyes, a bitterness, like a winter frost had permeated that face and locked it in time forever. The lips were thin, straight, and never smiled. The skin was pale, sallow, framed by a mass of thick, black hair that emphasised the sharp, unforgiving line of the high cheekbones.

One look at that face, and you would know the owner was not to be reckoned with.

Mystique sat quietly, whilst Rogue fell upon her first proper meal in ages with a gusto she could not conceal. If her mind could not believe that it was months she had been in a coma, her stomach could certainly do so. It was only a meagre serving of thick and tasteless porridge, but to Rogue it was like ambrosia. When she had finally finished and laid the bowl aside, her feverish mind was finally ready to ask the questions that had been gnawing away at her as hungrily as emptiness had gnawed at her stomach; and yet there were so many that she could not voice them. Beside her, Raven sat with her impassive stare - there never seemed to be a moment when she did not look at Rogue, and for the first time Rogue met that stare without flinching, without turning her eyes away even though her stomach was roiling with a sense of impending disaster.

Because ever since she had woken up and seen that silent face hovering over her, Rogue had known it. Something was wrong.

She could feel it in her very bones, something that was as tangible as day and night and yet that she could give no name to.

While she had slept, something had  _changed_.

For a moment, a blind panic filled her; the uncontrollable desire to run back to where she knew the mansion was, to confirm that everything was as she had left it, that there was no change and that this was some sort of horrible misunderstanding. Something of this must have shown in her face, because Raven, who'd been watching her intently the whole time, suddenly spoke sternly.

"There's no point in going back," she informed her foster-daughter evenly, as if anticipating Rogue's every thought already. "You'd be a fool to do so. They destroyed the mansion. They're still staking the ruins out. There's nothing left."

Raven didn't even blink. Her gaze remained level and unwavering. Rogue opened her mouth, moved it as if experimenting with some new, unknown invention. And then, miraculously, the first question popped out.

"Who is 'they'?"

Cool, grey eyes, unblinking…

"The military."

"They destroyed the mansion?"

"Yes."

"And Xavier, he's…"

"Dead."

Silence. A gulf of silence, careening around her, making her head spin, making her nauseous… She clutched at the comforter, feeling the roiling in her stomach explode into something sour and ugly, clawing up at her throat, making her choke -

She vomited.

It must have been a minute or two later that she came to, this time hunched over into the covers, clutching the ragged bedspread in between her emaciated fingers with the raw, rancid stench of vomit in her nostrils.

"And the others?" she choked.

"Dead," came the flat reply.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

She paused.

"Kurt?" she ventured at last.

She did not dare look into Mystique's eyes when she mentioned the name of her own flesh and blood.

"Dead."

So calm, so composed…

Rogue heaved, but this time nothing came up. She was drained, drained of everything she had. Something hit her breast, cold and heavy. The butterfly pendant, swinging against her chest… She clutched it tight in her right fist. At some point, maybe when she'd been unconscious, it had been chipped. A bit of blue enamel on the right wing was missing, and the white gold had lost its lustre. But it was still intact, just like she was…

Suddenly, unbidden, one more question rose in her throat; but she snapped her mouth on it before she could say it - it was too personal, it belonged to her, only to her…

_Remy…_

Her eyes were smarting with a moist fire but she held the tide back.

"Ah'm the only one left?" she finally whispered.

Raven made no reply. She stood, scuffing the chair legs on gritty wooden floorboards as she did so, and walked to a small window at the other end of the room, pulled aside the curtain and stared out. Her jaw was tensing, relaxing, tensing, relaxing… apart from this there was no other emotion on her face.

"We got to the mansion as soon as we heard what had happened," she spoke at last, her tone almost nonchalant. "It was easy, to disguise myself as one of them. They had found you in amongst the wreckage - you were barely alive, but you were still with us, thank the heavens. Those bastards shot you in the back - luckily they missed your spine by millimetres. For two months, we weren't even sure whether you'd live, or whether you'd die." She turned, letting the curtain fall back in place behind her. "I sincerely hope you're going to be grateful for the rescue."

Rogue looked away, swallowed.  _Me too…_

"Did you… did you look for anyone else?"

"Of course we did!" Raven unexpectedly snapped. "Do you think I would leave my own son -!" She broke off, clamping her mouth shut, her jaw tensing visibly again. "We looked  _everywhere_  for survivors. There were none. Xavier was killed - God knows who else."

Nausea gripped her again. It was crazy, it was unreal, yet she knew that if she pinched herself she'd never wake up.

"Where… where am Ah?"

"In a house on the outskirts of what used to be Mutant Town."

" _Used_  to be…?"

"The military and the Sentinels 'cleansed' it two days after the mansion was destroyed. The residents were either killed or incarcerated. No one lives here now."

It was worse, this feeling inside her bones, inside her brain, worse than she'd thought. So strange, so alien… It didn't make any sense.

"Cleansed? Holy  _shit_ …"

"The military stopped prowling a month ago. We figured it'd be safe to make a temporary base of operations here, at least for a couple of weeks. But once you're strong again, we'll be moving on. It's not safe to stay in this place for too prolonged a length of time. The Sentinels still make infrequent patrols through the area. As do the Hounds."

_Hounds?_

She pressed a hand to her aching forehead. Too many questions. Save the Hounds for later. Save…  _everything_ for later. Prioritise.

Her mouth opened, the words forming slowly, inelegantly, inside it.

"Who's this 'we'?" she inquired. From her place in the corner, a wry, sardonic smile twisted Raven's lips.

"The Brotherhood. What's left of it anyway. Toad got killed in the purges, as did Blob and Phantazia. Sabretooth - missing in action, presumed dead. Not that I give two shits about the miserable excuse for a bastard anyway," Raven added caustically. "Now it's just me, Irene, Pyro, Avalanche - and Forge."

Rogue glanced up sharply.

"Forge?"

Raven's smile was still wry.

"As far as I can tell, he was the only one who wasn't in the mansion at the time it was destroyed. He came to us a week afterwards, of his own volition. He wanted to help us. Of course we could use expertise such as he possesses… So I welcomed him on board without a second thought. A man like him, a man with his skills is uniquely invaluable to people like us, Rogue."

"People like  _us…_?"

"Come now, Rogue. You were once a member of the Brotherhood, weren't you. Or did Xavier surreptitiously wipe that fact from your mind?"

"Ah joined the X-Men because Ah wanted to," Rogue replied sullenly, bitterly. "Ah thought you'd accepted it."

"Oh yes, indeed," Raven retorted sarcastically, arms crossed. "But the X-Men are dead now, Rogue. Killed by the very humans that the Brotherhood so long warned you about." Her smile was glacial, didn't even reach her eyes. "I would say I told you so, but since recent events make my point so self-evident, it's hardly worth it. Xavier was wrong," she continued scornfully, "and sadly he paid for that with his life. Equality is dead. Harmony between baseline humans and mutants is only so much dust on the wind. And it wasn't  _our_  doing, Rogue. It was theirs. The humans. Who then, Rogue, is the more worthy race now?"

She turned back to the window, threw open the curtains; but the light that filtered in was dim and frosty, casting no illumination on the dingy little room that encased them.

"The world has changed, Rogue," Mystique murmured. "It changed while you slept, and there is much that you will have to learn. I'm going to undo what Xavier did to you, unpick it, unravel it, tear it to pieces - and not because I despised him and everything he stood for, no. I'm going to do it because these are the truths this world now presents us with - simple truths, Rogue, not the elaborate creeds that the good professor once taught you."

She swivelled suddenly, and Rogue saw that Raven's face was etched with hard lines, the mouth grim and set. Those lines were the scars of recent pain and hardship, of ineffectual victories won, of many more battles lost. They were scars Raven had never worn before, not in all the time that Rogue had known her. She shivered.

"You spoke of cleansing, of purges," Rogue spoke in a low tone. "You mean the humans have finally done it? They're purging…  _us_?"

The hard line that was Raven's mouth curled at the corner into something faintly ominous. "In a manner of speaking. The purges lasted only a month, and were restricted to those the government deemed the most dangerous."

"The super-powered mutants?" Rogue whispered. Raven nodded curtly.

"Indeed. Naturally, the X-Men were at the top of the hit list. They had to go first. After that they rounded up any other superhero outfit they could find. Alpha Flight, Excalibur, Weapon X, certain of the Avengers… Afterwards came Magneto and his Acolytes - and then the Brotherhood." Mystique looked away, leaned on the dresser beside her, traced the edge of it with a fingernail, leaving a thin trail in the dust. "Then they moved to Mutant Town and arrested anyone they classified as a danger to 'normal', law-abiding humans. Unfortunately, some of the mutant gangs put up a struggle. Many innocent mutants were killed, or were forced underground. What's left is a ghost town. What's been left is  _this_."

She spread her arms in a parody of the grand gesture; but Rogue did not need to look to see.

The shapeless, ramshackle room, the scent of decay, the cobwebs and the woodworm, the silence… the silence…

Someone had lived here, and, quite possibly, died here.

Another wave of nausea took her, swelled up in her breast and she drew her knees tightly against her chest, clasping her arms about her as if to protect her from the silence, from the truth.

"They passed a bill," Mystique continued pedantically. "They passed it the very morning they attacked the mansion. The government declared martial law against all mutants. Segregation and oppression, Rogue. Strict control of where we go, what we do, and who we fraternise with. The army patrols every sector of the city, with or without the aid of Bolivar Trask's Sentinels. And then there are the Hounds."

"Hounds?" Rogue croaked over the crook of her arm.

"Yes." Raven's face, half shrouded in darkness, took on the sinister quality of a stone gargoyle. "Mutants like us, who have been brainwashed into betraying their own kind. They hunt us down, flush us out, toss us over to the military, kill us. They are the government's deadliest weapon against us. Ironic, isn't it." A sardonic smile twitched once more on those thin lips. "The one thing that can destroy us - ourselves. I suppose the baseline humans are smarter than I gave them credit for."

A sick horror was spreading through Rogue like a virus. She hugged herself tighter, her eyes smarting.

"They're using mutants against mutants…"

This time, Mystique merely grunted her confirmation - disgust, scorn and contempt were etched upon her face as she turned back to the window, the uncompromising lines of her face illuminated by the cold, grey light.

"Do you have an intimation, Rogue, of the world we are now living in?" she spoke harshly. "I can only suppose that, at this precise moment in time, you don't believe a word I have just told you. You see the veracity in my voice and in my face, but all your senses tell you that such a thing cannot be true. The United States of America, our beloved country," and she said this with open mockery and disdain, "is a bastion of democracy; since its inception it has stood for such human rights as equality and freedom of speech. But the hard, cold truth is that mutants are no longer classed as humans, Rogue. We are no better than animals, we are expendable and therefore we have no rights. Moreover, we are a threat to the very stability of the nation. We are dangerous and we cannot be allowed to promulgate." She half turned, eyeing Rogue askance from over her shoulder. "Once you have left this room, once you step outside this building, you will see the world we mutants inhabit; you will be forced to face the changes you have slept through. You will have no choice but to believe in the fullest sense - body, mind, heart and soul. But you are a strong girl," she half-smiled, "anyone weaker, and the truth would probably break them. But from the moment I first came across you, Rogue, so long ago, I knew that you possessed a strength very few possess. And a unique destiny few others have been blessed with."

It was only a throwaway comment, a nothing; but the word glared at Rogue as clearly as if someone had shone a headlight in her eyes.

 _Destiny_.

And the coldness was in her throat now, lodging there; she stared at Raven with questing, tremulous eyes.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered.

For a long while, Mystique said nothing. Then she crossed the room, sat back down before Rogue, and held her gaze intently.

"What more could I want from you, Rogue," she spoke softly, yet fervently, "but for you to join us?"

She knew it, she  _knew_  it…

"Join the Brotherhood…?"

"Join us in our crusade to free mutants from bondage," Mystique nodded, her expression ravenous, even zealous. "From the very beginning, Rogue, your place was with  _us_  - before the X-Men, before you ever heard of Charles Xavier, you were one of the Brotherhood. Why do you think I sought you out in the first place?" She leaned back, her expression dulling, before continuing: "Of course, your time with the X-Men served a purpose. Xavier tempered you, taught you discipline. He trained you, cultivated you in a way that perhaps I could not. And with their deaths, the X-Men served their ultimate purpose. They gave  _you_  a purpose to  _live_."

The coldness was growing, seeping into every bone of her body, and Rogue hugged herself so tight that her knuckles were white, that her jaw ached; but still she said nothing.

"It was the humans that did this to them, Rogue," Mystique hissed, low and insidious. "Not  _us._  Not the Brotherhood, not Magneto, nor anyone else. It was the everyman, the guy on the street, the very people the X-Men fought daily to save. And what did they repay you with? Death, destruction. Here, if ever, is a reason for vengeance, my daughter. That  _you_ survived, of all people present in the mansion that day, presents you with a unique mission." She leaned in again, said: "Avenge those that were martyred that day, Rogue. Join the Brotherhood and together we will see them avenged. We will see  _all_  of mutantkind avenged. If not for our sake, if not for yours, do it for Xavier, do it for those loved and lost."

There was an odd moment where the two held one another's gaze, as if Raven wished to impart some terrible destiny on Rogue with the mere force of her glance. But after what seemed an impenetrably long time, Raven stood and looked down at her foster-daughter with a small smile.

"Of course, I don't wish you to make your decision now. I've told you a great many things today that you no doubt will have to think upon. But one day, and very soon, Rogue, you will have to make a decision. A decision that may affect a great many people. Do not consider it lightly, my child."

She stooped slightly, placing a graceful yet roughened hand on Rogue's shoulder; then she turned and walked to the door.

"It's best if you rest now," she said. "But when you are ready, come and see me. I'll be waiting."

She left, leaving behind portents of doom greater than anything Rogue had ever encountered before. And true to Raven's word, there was the undeniable sense of things unravelling right before Rogue's eyes. Her world, her life, everything she had stood for, quietly being undone, quietly being scattered to the wind.

What else could she do but sleep?

-oOo-


	3. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue goes back to the ruins of the Xavier mansion and makes a life-changing decision.

Later, it came back to her. A memory.

That morning, the morning the military had attacked, she'd been looking for him, unable to find him anywhere. She'd been down to the boathouse, angry that he'd run away from her when every day since he'd first arrived in their midst he'd been following her around like some single-minded shadow. She'd been walking back up to the mansion in the summer heat with Rachel at her side, complaining for the umpteenth time about the whole sorry state of affairs.

"He doesn't get it, Rae," she'd murmured quietly. "He wants me to touch him. He doesn't get that if Ah do it, there's no turnin' back. Ah won't be able to undo it. Ah'll know everythin' about him, inside out, every memory, every thought, every secret, every fetish. And he doesn't give a shit."

"And is  _that_  what you argued about?" Rachel had asked, eyebrows raised.

"A kiss for a lifetime of secrets," she had whispered sadly, toying absently with the pendant about her neck. "Is that the way you'd want to get to know someone you care about? By rippin' out the mystery of  _him_?"

The mystery of him. A puzzle to be solved no more. The breath of a touch would have been all it would have taken and now it was too late.

A smile, a glance, the whisper of a kiss.

So many promises gone unfulfilled, so many chances lost.

Her memories were traitors, every one - they could never bring him back.

-oOo-

She stayed in bed for a long time. It wasn't so much despair as rebellion; a rebellion against everything Raven had told her, against the world that still moved on outside the four walls of her bedroom.

Lying there in that bed, she could pretend the world didn't exist, that this room and her bed was a little pocket universe all on its own that bore no relation to what was going on outside. Because she still couldn't believe what Raven had told her; she couldn't believe that the world was now her enemy in every sense of the word, that the shackles she wore were not merely the shackles of her own mutant ability, but the shackles of slavery itself. And she couldn't believe that the X-Men were dead. That she was the only survivor within mere inches.

She lay in bed, awake, for many days. She tried not to sleep because sleep invited nightmares, nightmares of her friends, her comrades being massacred, of her mentor, her teacher, the only father she had, being ripped to shreds, whilst she was paralysed and powerless to stop it.

Xavier was dead. It hardly seemed credible. Because not only had the man died, so too had his dream - the dream to awaken the world. The death of his dream had killed something in her, leaving an empty, hollow space that burned angrily every waking hour she possessed, burned so intolerably that some nights she couldn't even endure being inside her own body, that she would have torn herself apart if only to free herself from the anguish inside her.

And then there were other nights where she would dream of  _him_ , of his hands on her in an exquisitely gentle caress, of his lips on hers, lips she had never tasted, that she never would because he was dead too. She would wake up bathed in sweat and tears, sobbing into her pillow for something that had been robbed from her before she had even had the chance to possess it.

Because that day, the day they had killed him, she had been going to end it with him, she had been prepared to walk away from him when he was the only thing she'd ever wanted more than the chance to touch another person, and now she could never have him, not ever.

The humans had taken him away from her. They had taken away her dreams, every single one of them, leaving her with this gaping hole inside her, a hole that ached like the loss of a limb, of an organ, of her heart. There were no more ideologies to cling to. There were no more legacies to inherit. There wasn't even the heart of a thief left to steal. No one to embrace, no one to say 'I love you' to, even if she could ever learn to love.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the wound inside her, bleeding and burning, twisting and turning like a hot knife in her breast, causing her agony beyond imagining.

There were not enough tears in the world for her to cry.

And then, quite inexplicably, there came a day when she found she had cried them all. When she woke up to find the fire gone and the blood run dry. No more knife, no more agony, no more anything. One night she slept to dreams of torture and decay, and the next morning she woke to find herself dead.

Dead man walking.

It had a whole new meaning now.

She was hollow inside, as if the night had invaded her while she slept and stolen all her insides. She sat up in bed, and there was no pain. There were no tears. There was only this odd, cold spot inside her, no more than a pinprick deep inside her breast, one that nevertheless churned with all the force of a black hole, a vortex sucking her dry.

At first she had no name to call this cold spot inside her, for it wasn't anything so strong or violent as grief, or hate, or rebellion, or revenge. It lay there inside her, quiet and unimposing, resting on her heart like a blot or a stain.

It would take her very many months to recognise it, and when she did, there was only one name fit for it.

Death.

A little death inside her, eating away at her day in, day out.

It didn't matter what she did now, because she had nothing left. Her life was worthless, just like millions of other mutant lives were now worthless - but for her there was one crucial difference. She was alone. She'd never felt more acutely alone in all her life.

It was on that day that she finally got out of bed, only to find that it wasn't so hard at all. She rearranged the comforter, pulled open the curtains, and looked outside. It had once been a dirty, residential street in the ghettos of Mutant Town, now populated only by the skeletons of buildings, tall rows of houses that had been reduced to nothing more than the bare bones of bricks and mortar. Roofs had been ripped off like the lids of tin cans; walls had been knocked down wholesale, filling the roads with rubble, dust and smoke. It looked like a war zone. There was not a soul in sight.

She turned away from the window, finding no emotion in her as she had gazed at the pitiful view.

For the first time in weeks she left the bedroom that had confined her, stepping out onto the landing and descending the stairs with a kind of detached curiosity. The house had been gutted at some point, either by squatters or looters; everything was nondescript, characterised only by dull, cracked walls that had all faded to the same shade of grey, by cobwebs lingering in the corners, by the cockroaches that festered and scuttled against the skirting, giving the house its only sense of inhabitation.

She opened doors, closed them, peered inside rooms that had no meaning, no significance except to those that had once occupied them, mutants who may be eking out a hollow existence elsewhere, or otherwise dead.

There were no ghosts in this house for her.

She finally found Raven sitting in what once must have been the study, perusing an old, worn, leather-bound book with the ravenous look of a vulture scrutinising its prey.

As soon as Rogue saw that book she should have known it would have been easier to walk away. Instead it instilled a sense of purpose within the gap that now engulfed her empty heart.

"Ah'm ready," was all she said.

-oOo-

For a period of some months after this, all her nightmares stopped. The days were an endless void within which she relearned the entirety of herself. It was only later that the nightmares came back to her, when nightmares had ceased being mere figments of imagination and had become reality.

Then again, Irene would have told her dreams are not figments of imagination, but portents of that which is to come.

Mystique had less time for such frivolities, and even less time for riddles. She didn't  _make_  philosophy, she  _was_  philosophy. For everything Xavier had taught Rogue, she had a counter. With Xavier's death, it seemed that Raven's path had become clearer. There had been many times in the past where Rogue had seen the fervent fanaticism of her foster-mother - in her movements, in her gestures, in her eyes. But now that the times had changed, now that Raven's cause had become more clear-cut than ever, these traits had become more inscribed into her character. It was almost as if Mystique now felt vindicated in walking the path she'd chosen for herself, and it was a collusion she tried to draw Rogue into . To her, Rogue's path could not be more distinct. Her friends, her comrades and her mentor were all dead at the hands of the human aggressors, and instinct dictated a natural desire for vengeance. Rogue, Mystique said, had a duty to those of her kind that had fallen, a duty that demanded revenge of some sort. Thus Mystique had guaranteed Rogue a place in the Brotherhood, this ragtag band of mutant outlaws, part of a larger underground network of terrorists whose ultimate mission was to eliminate the rule of the 'statics', which in revolutionary nomenclature referred to the baseline humans - the villains, the oppressors, the tyrants.

But Rogue felt no true thirst for revenge. It was not that she didn't resent what the statics had done to the X-Men. It was not that she didn't mourn the loss of the only family she had , or that she did not believe that the murders of her friends and comrades should be brought to justice. She harboured all these thoughts and emotions, but felt quite unable to act upon them. It was as though the moment she had woken from her coma, she had woken into a body hewn of stone, one that could not feel and whose heart had been numbed. She bore no hope; but her despair was not of an all-consuming kind. Rather, it was a dull and lingering ache that petered listlessly on throughout all of Mystique's subsequent training. Soon she was to become just another soldier in the war against the Sentinels, the statics, and the Hounds.

Rogue allowed herself to be transformed because she could see no other prospect for herself. If she were to leave the Brotherhood, what was she to do? Be forced to live underground with the other remaining mutants? Live in abject poverty, be imprisoned, maimed, killed or tortured? She was after all an ex-X-Man. On the outside, she was as good as dead anyway. The Brotherhood was a dysfunctional family that she had left long ago for the very reason that it had no longer held anything for her. But it was the only family she had left; it was the only thing that could give her a purpose in life, because she could never be anything else but someone else's warrior in their own ideological war. She had no other qualification, no other craft.

She was a fighter, and she was going to carry on fighting to the death.

-oOo-

It was strange, how dreams and memories suddenly became interchangeable.

She wasn't sure how it happened, but every day her past life seemed to become less and less real, and whilst her future was certainly dead, her past seemed to have melted, collapsed in on itself, and become a landscape as alien to her as that of a Dali painting.

There were no more certainties in this world of hers, no more truths, no more absolutes. Nevertheless she went back to the mansion, once. Much of what remained of it had been scavenged since its destruction, but there were other artefacts that had been left to rot in the rubble and the dust - Xavier's books and papers, the odd photograph or memento; scraps of clothing too mangled to be of any use, bills and notes and letters that would have no meaning to anyone but their owners.

She spent a long time walking amongst the torn shell of the place she had called home for those few short years, feeling nothing but an extraordinary detachment that was punctuated only by the faint taste of bitterness in her mouth. For the first time since she had awoken to her new life, it finally dawned upon her, with a sharp and unforgiving clarity, that what had happened  _really had happened_ ; that Xavier's haven really had been destroyed, along with everyone in it - save for her. Although the world had inexorably changed, a part of her had always denied it, until the very moment when she stood amongst the ruins of the old world with the wind in her hair and on her cheeks, with her heart in her mouth. A part of her had always expected to return here and find that nothing had changed, that the old world was still intact and that these past few months of her life had been nothing more than a bad dream.

But the evidence was irrefutable - the mansion was dead, its dreams were dead, and the people within it… they too were dead.

Save for one, and that was her.

She wandered aimlessly through the husk of the building, stopping now and then to pick up and examine some lost fragment or household item that still remained amongst the debris. A spoon, a broken watch, a pair of shattered glasses - Hank's, he'd always worn them in the lab. A crusty notepad with its contents eroded by the elements; an earring in the shape of a red star nestled, forgotten, in a broken corner.

Rogue bent over, picked it up. She remembered. Red hair and fierce green eyes; the plucky, freckled face of a young girl, the stubborn, down-turned mouth. This earring had once belonged to Rachel Summers, had been given to her by her mother on her ( _ninth?)_  birthday. Only a few months later, Jean Grey-Summers had been murdered at the hands of the mutant known as Mastermind. He'd detonated a nuclear bomb in Pittsburgh; after that the world had descended into a whirlwind of oddly ordered chaos. Senator Robert Kelly had been mysteriously murdered; consequently anti-mutant legislation had been pushed through post-haste, and Bolivar Trask's Sentinel program had been given the official green light. Within a matter of years, this mansion and the X-Men had followed Jean to the grave.

Rachel, heart-broken, insular and inscrutable in all the time that Rogue had known her, had returned to her mother's arms at last.

Rogue half considered taking the earring with her, but without any conscious reason she decided against it and dropped it back to the ground. It rolled lazily across the once-polished parquet floor before coming to a poignant standstill. Rogue stood. This had once been the ballroom, a wide, open space adorned with diamond chandeliers and grand sash windows. She had a sudden memory of lights and tinsel and foil, in various coruscating colours; of port and champagne and turkey and punch, of laughing faces and chatter, of music and the scent of mingled perfume and tobacco.

She shivered and planted her gloved hands firmly inside the pockets of her jacket.

_Remy…_

Christmas. It had been Christmas.

She must have known him for about four or five months at the time. He'd always skulked around the sidelines during any group activity, that perpetual, cocky little smirk on his lips, as if he found their togetherness quaint and amusing. It had always irritated her. He was a lonewolf, through and through - it had always made her wonder why he had joined the X-Men at all. Some of the others had resented his unwillingness to open up to the rest of the team, but it had also lent him an aura of mystique she'd always found irresistible.

Even back then she'd always been able to feel when his eyes were on her. He'd been doing it that day from across the length of the ballroom, making her skin prickle and her cheeks flush, until she could stand it no longer. She'd always suspected that he enjoyed doing that to her, drawing her to him with just a glance.

He'd been standing by one of the sash windows, the night looming behind him, as if to reel him back in. He had been leaning against the windowframe, smoking, as he always seemed to, with that small, self-absorbed smile on his face and those dark, hypnotic eyes on her, always on her.

"If yah ain't enjoyin' yourself, sugah," she'd admonished him playfully, "then why don't you spend the holidays with your folks back home?"

He'd smiled, easy, suggestive.

"I prefer de view here." Always suave, always gallant, always completely the cad. She'd half frowned, half smirked.

"Seriously. Ain't there  _any_  loved ones back home yah can visit?"

His smile had drooped slightly, his eyes had dulled.

"Not anymore," he said.

She'd liked that about him. The mystery, the enigma. He was like the dark side of the moon to her, partially shadowed, partially hidden. She'd touched his arm with a gloved hand, even though such an action was always taken as an open to flirtation between them.

"Then why don't yah come and join the rest of us?" she'd asked earnestly. "Storm's been askin' for yah…"

"No t'anks," he'd replied smoothly, reaching out and absently picking a bit of silly string out of her hair. "I can't stand dese family affairs. Too cute and gooey for de likes of me. I'm fine right here. As long as you're gonna stay here too, chere."

She'd raised a heated eyebrow, never knowing whether to be annoyed or amused at his bravado…

"Remy, it's Christmas. Yah  _have_  to get into the spirit of things…"

A small, slow grin had crossed his face.

"Well, since you put it dat way… I guess you're right. How about we go over dere and make out under de mistletoe? You could show me what exactly makes de Rogue's kiss so dynamite."

Her cheeks had coloured violently - from embarrassment, from anger and perhaps a little from desire, because if she'd been any other girl she wouldn't have said no…

"Remy, yah know Ah can't -"

"Yes, you can. I seen you kiss men before. Complete strangers at dat. Dey get so excited dey be keelin' over. And dis Cajun can get awful jealous, chere. He ain't gonna rest till he knows what all de big fuss is about."

It had been anger, not embarrassment. Anger making her flush, making her reply bitterly: "Don't joke about it. If Ah kiss yah, Ah steal a little bit of you. Your memories become mine. Ah might even hurt yah."

He'd looked away, shrugged.

"Maybe I wouldn't mind so much," he answered baldly. "Maybe I want someone t' understand me. Maybe I want someone to know all my innermost secrets. And if I can get a kiss from you thrown into de bargain, maybe it'd all be worth it." He'd looked back at her, his gaze intent, lustful, and all in a moment her anger had dissipated, replaced with the helplessness of want and desire. "Am I bein' selfish yet, chere?" he'd drawled.

What had struck her was the fact that, if she'd been braver, if she'd been more foolhardy, she would have done it. Because she'd wanted to reach out into him, she'd wanted to know all his secrets, she'd wanted to understand who and what he really was. She had been selfish too, back then. And yet a part of her had balked at the thought. Despite the many times he would tempt her with romance and kisses afterward, she had never been able to go through with it.

"You're crazy," she'd muttered at last.

"Chere," he'd assured her lazily, pressing the cigarette to his lips, "bein' around a femme as fine as you is enough to drive a man crazy. Bein' unable to touch her is enough to drive him certifiably insane."

What he'd never known was that she'd felt the same way about him. Being around him, with all the cute repartee, with all the flirtation - hadn't he ever once thought that it had driven her crazy too?

To want someone so badly that you dreamt about them at night, and to live knowing that if you ever reached out to touch them you could kill them?

Still, there were days now that she wished that she'd reached out and kissed him that night.

At least then she would have got to know him, before she'd lost him forever.

Rogue sighed, looking up to concrete grey skies, letting the breeze touch her pale cheeks. There was not even a building left to contain these memories; all she had was locked inside her own being, and more often than not they were memories she no longer wished to touch. It was better that the ruins of this place be left to the elements - there could be no memorial, except within her. She was an unworthy successor to the past and all that it stood for.

And that made her as alone and frightened as she had been the first moment she had stepped inside this mansion some four of five years before.

"It's time we went."

She turned slightly. Mystique was standing a little way behind her, her raven locks rippling silkily in the wind. She'd afforded her foster-daughter enough time to mourn - for Mystique, there was little left to mourn in this world but a dead son and the inescapable passages of time. But Rogue wasn't quite ready to leave just yet. She turned back and looked down the slope, to the lake glistening clear and untouched as it always had been, to the familiar old cedar tree that she'd sought refuge under so many times before.

She absently clutched the pendant about her neck with a gloved hand.

"Just a moment longer," she murmured.

"A moment longer and you won't be able to leave," Raven noted quietly.

_True…_

She sighed and turned again. Raven was still standing in the same place, an expectant look on her grim and forbidding face. Neither of them found any pleasure in returning to this place, although for entirely different reasons.

"You were right, momma," Rogue murmured softly, the words whipped from her mouth on a sudden breeze. "It  _is_  gone."

"And you doubted me?" Raven asked, a black eyebrow raised. Rogue glanced away. Amongst the dust and the rubble, the red star earring glittered in the faltering sunlight.

"Maybe. A little." She paused, looked back at the implacable face before her. "It's strange. Ah feel… nothin'."

"Or maybe you don't have a name for what it is you're feeling," Mystique pointed out shrewdly, her eyes eagle-like. Rogue lowered her eyelids, tucked an unruly lock of white hair back behind her ear. "Maybe…"

Raven watched her.

"Those you loved are gone," she spoke at last. "There's little use in pining." She too slipped her hands into her pockets, closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them again they were staring off into the distance. "What you experienced here, Rogue, was merely a short period of respite in your life. One, I might venture to add, that did very little for you. You came with the expectation that Xavier would be able to cure you of your 'abnormality'. Five years later and you're still no closer."

"Still no closer to being able to touch…" Rogue agreed under her breath. She looked up again to find Raven's eyes back on her.

"What held you back, Rogue?" Raven asked, and this time there was a real earnestness in her voice. "I always thought that if  _I_  could not help you to control your abilities, then at least the good professor would be able to. And yet he too failed. Why?"

_Sometimes Ah think that if Ah ever let you get close t' me… Ah'd kill you._

"Ah guess Ah just got scared that Ah might hurt the people Ah cared about," Rogue half-whispered. "Like what happened with Cody…" She trailed off.

_Maybe I want someone to know all my innermost secrets…_

"That damned boy," Raven muttered heartlessly. "He ruined you, Rogue, ruined everything your power could have helped you to  _be_. Still, at least he served his purpose. He brought you to us - even if you didn't stay very long."

"Five years is a long time," Rogue observed. Raven's smile was sardonic.

"Evidently not long enough."

Rogue did not smile. She looked away again, to the lake, to the cedar tree, to the things that would not decay however many petty wars were fought and lost.

"What is it?" Mystique asked softly.

"Ah'm just thinkin' that there's no one left to care for now. That maybe Ah don't need to be scared anymore." She looked back over her shoulder; Raven's eyes were once more silent, watchful. "Ah'm thinkin' that maybe Ah'm ready now -  _really_  ready."

Those timeless grey eyes glittered, with pride, with triumph; but Rogue looked away, back to the tree, feeling nothing.

"Maybe you could teach me now, momma. Maybe you could teach me to touch."

-oOo-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah, I know. The DoFP timeline. Sorry I dropped all you guys into that there. I didn't know much about it either, so I had to do a bit of researching. But even then, a lot of this story has been tweaked and so it's only really loosely based on the DoFP timeline. Basically, in this timeline, martial law was declared against all mutants, and the mansion was destroyed by the military and the Sentinels. Prof X was killed, as were most of the X-Men and a lot of other heroes... But I won't say anymore since it'll probably ruin the story. Best place to go if you're looking for more info is uncannyxmen. net. uncannyxmen.?faq9&fldAuto36 . BTW, I know this is going slowly at the moment, but please bear with me. The real drama will begin in the next couple of chapters. princess fairys... The answer to your question is easy. I've already written the whole story already. :) I think Mags is on the run right now. Later on he loses the use of both his legs (ironically), and gets incarcerated by the military. But he doesn't really come into this story (yet). :)


	4. Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue learns to touch, and steals a peak at Destiny's Diaries.

She learnt to touch.

It was a pyrric victory, because now there was nothing left to touch in this sad, cold world.

Perhaps if her heart had not stopped beating long ago, it would have made a difference, but now it did not. It was probably that indifference that made it so easy for her to finally conquer the terrible curse that had afflicted her ever since her powers had first manifested. Because now there was nothing left to fear, no consequence to shy from, no psychological barrier to break through when every other belief had already been broken down.

There was no one left to love, no one left to hurt anymore.

It didn't stop her from dreaming about him at night, even though such dreams never made a difference, because even if she possessed the ability to touch another human being, she couldn't touch him now just as she hadn't been able to touch him then. The only pinpricks of emotion she possessed were saved for him; stark and lonely, isolated moments of tenderness in the night, when she would hug herself tight and gaze at a luminescent moon, wishing to be borne away on this tide, far away to a place where there was no existence. She came to believe, over time, that she loved his memory far more than she had ever loved him, for the sole reason that now she could never possess him, and one always wants what one can never have.

_Death makes the heart grow fonder…_

If Mystique noticed any such pining in Rogue she said nothing. If anything, she preferred this silent, detached and aloof Rogue.

"Aloofness always makes the best kind of soldier," she always declared with the quiet satisfaction of the self-righteous.

Despite her newfound control over her mutant abilities, Rogue still did not stop hearing the voices of those she had stolen whenever she lay in bed at night.

She suspected that if she tried hard enough, she could lock them away inside of her, perhaps even erase them if she wanted to.

But she never did because they were the only conscience she now possessed. They were a constant reminder of who she was and why she did what she did. She was a fighter because it was her penance, her penance for all the terrible sins she'd committed. Every last day of her life, the lives she had stolen would be the ones she would be avenging, and as long as they existed she would have a cause to fight, and thus, a cause to live.

-oOo-

"Do you ever dream at night, Rogue?"

It was autumn. Almost two years had passed since she'd awoken from that coma, since the waking dream had begun.

Rogue sat on the edge of the mildewed windowsill and stared out onto the shadowy vista that stretched out before her. A whole district of houses, nexus to an industrial wasteland that had been vacated long ago. The people who had lived here had been scientists, lab technicians and engineers on the Sentinel project way back in its infancy some fifteen years ago, on the outskirts of New York City. Since then, the Sentinels had become big business, and their inventor and owner, Bolivar Trask, had become a multimillionaire, the director of his own company - Trask Technologies - which manufactured and patented a vast variety of products, from household appliances to the very latest in mutant-killing machinery. Their latest headquarters were a far cry from the abandoned factory that now lay just over the horizon through the window that Rogue now sat at. Trask Technologies now had their base in a swanky high-rise building made of glass and chrome slap-bang in the middle of Manhattan.

Mystique had thought it wittily ironic that the Brotherhood should now have their own headquarters in a run-down residential area where Trask had first started out. Supposedly it appealed to her sense of poetic justice, but at the slow rate the Brotherhood appeared to be working, Rogue wasn't sure any type of justice was round the corner at all.

Raven was not unduly concerned about all this.

She'd been trying to change the world for the past hundred years or so, and another hundred probably wasn't going to make much difference.

She was behind Rogue right now, a mug of coffee in her hand as she, too, stared out onto the endless rows of dilapidated houses that reached out into the distance.

"Do you ever dream at night, Rogue?" she asked.

Rogue pressed her palm against the mottled windowpane and stared at the dark clouds that were gathering over the horizon, thick with the premonition of rain.

"Ah don't remember my dreams," she lied blandly. She didn't want anything for Raven to pick up on. She didn't want to impart any of herself to her foster-mother, not anymore - the less Raven knew the better.

"Don't you?" Mystique's tone was faintly ironic. "Don't you hear the cries of those who died around you? Your comrades, your friends, your loved ones? Don't they plague every waking moment, every darkened dream?"

"The only cries Ah hear are from the people Ah once absorbed," Rogue murmured, removing her hand from the pane. The warmth of her gloveless hand had left an imprint on the cold glass, which faded rapidly and was lost forever. She swivelled slightly and looked back at her foster-mother with a neutral gaze. "Ah try not t' think about what happened t' the X-Men."

Mystique raised an eyebrow.

"And yet you continue to let those other voices haunt you?" she queried.

Rogue shrugged. "Ah s'ppose those voices tell me who Ah really am," she replied. She didn't want to tell Raven what she really dreamt of. That was her own secret, and the fact that she kept it close to her chest was one of the few things that kept her going, that made her feel that she had any separate, internal life at all.

For a long while, Mystique said nothing, but also leaned against the pane, and stared out into the distance with her daughter. Thin streaks of rain were now staining the foggy windowpane.

"We're the same, you and I," she said at last.

"How so?" Rogue asked quietly, begrudgingly. The last thing she wanted was to be compared to her foster-mother, but if Raven noticed the hostility in her daughter's voice, she made no allusion to it.

"Because we have no idea who we truly are," she said instead. "Because we've lost our identities in our mutant abilities, because we've become something more and yet paradoxically  _less_  than who we really are. You steal other people's lives; I  _become_  other people's lives. We spend so much time being other people, we don't really _know_ who we are." She paused, her gaze far away, her lips contorting into a thin smile. "In many ways, Rogue, we are like the chrysalis," she murmured, "waiting to be born into the butterfly. We are the faceless and the formless, waiting to become something complete and beautiful and whole, striving to become human."

Rogue looked up into her foster-mother's cold, grey eyes, and it was only then that she understood that Mystique was performing her own form of penance, for her lost humanity, for her dead and murdered son.

"What is it you want?" Rogue asked at last. Ever since Mystique had entered her room she had been aware that her foster-mother had done so with a hidden agenda. Mystique always had one agenda or another, some more opaque than others. Today she was being more reticent than usual, and this irritated Rogue.

"I'm going to give you a mission, Rogue," Raven announced beside her. Rogue looked up. Raven made no move to return the glance, her eyes remaining on the window, her mouth hard. This was not an unusual statement on Raven's part - over the past year or so, Rogue had often carried out missions for the Brotherhood - and yet something in Raven's voice now suggested something different about this particular assignment.

"What is it?" Rogue asked, trying to maintain her insouciance.

Raven made no reply, but moved away from the windowsill, and planted herself casually in one of the two chairs that resided in Rogue's room. Reluctantly, Rogue turned away from the window to face her mother, recognising instinctively the business-like expression on Mystique's face.

"Rogue," she spoke after a momentary pause to gather her thoughts, "I believe it is time for you to prove yourself to the Brotherhood."

Her tone was even, yet not without an apologetic air. Rogue stared at her.

"Ah don't understand," she said. "Ah've gone on missions for you before… Ah thought Ah'd already proved myself…"

"So to speak," Raven nodded. "And you have performed your tasks admirably. But up till now, they have been minor tasks. Nothing that has involved any great sacrifice on your part."

"Ah don't understand," Rogue frowned. "Sacrifice…?"

"Physically, emotionally, morally," Raven explained peremptorily. "For the past year and a half, I have endeavoured to train you, and you've responded well. But I have merely given you the tools with which you yourself must work with. And those tools I gave to you with the intention that you use them to the benefit of the Brotherhood - of the  _cause_."

"The cause?" Rogue half-laughed. "Y'mean freein' mutants from oppression? Can it honestly be done?"

"So you don't believe it can be done, when you believed in such improbabilities as mutants and baseline humans living in harmony?" Raven replied pointedly. Rogue looked away.

"That was different."

"Perhaps. Xavier's dream was an ideology, a creed, something insubstantial, ephemeral. But what  _I_ believe in is feasible and workable, something that can be brought about by achieving a set of clearly stated goals, goals that can be accomplished through practical means - that are being accomplished, one by one, even as we speak. The same could not be said for Xavier's dream. He was an idealist, Rogue, and I am merely a realist. In these times especially, there is no room for idealists, not where the emancipation of mutants is concerned." Her eyes flickered over Rogue's face intently. "Do you understand me?"

"Ah understand," Rogue conceded, somewhat mutinously.

"But that doesn't mean you have to believe in what I say, does it?" Raven noted with a hint of irony. She leaned forward in her chair and said almost despairingly: "You are a child of Xavier, through and through. What happened to you that day at the mansion - it killed you, Rogue, and yet  _still_ a part of you clings to the past. Why do you not let it go?"

This time Rogue did not look away.

"Because it's the only thing I have left," she replied unwaveringly.

"Like the voices in your head?" Raven questioned, an eyebrow arched. It was only then that Rogue averted her gaze.

"What's this mission you want me to do?" she asked instead.

Mystique settled back in her chair, considering her foster-daughter a moment.

"There's a Sentinel parts factory in Manhattan - a subsidiary of Trask Technologies. It's not just one of the peripheral factories the Brotherhood's hit before. This one is Trask Technologies'  _major_  supplier of Sentinel parts - it's a known fact that they're also the supplier of parts for his latest prototypes." She paused, then added darkly; "I want you to go in there and blow the place to hell."

Rogue stared at her in surprise.

"We're gonna hit a Trask Technologies' parts factory? But-"

"Until now the Brotherhood has only taken small stabs at the system, but now I believe the time is ripe for us to make a firmer stand. If you are truly with us, Rogue, then you will take this mission. Are you willing to do so?"

Rogue frowned slightly, looking out of the window again, at the blurred vision of the urban wasteland beyond the rain-slickened windowpane.

"This ain't just about takin' a stand, is it?" she said softly. "It's about Irene's diaries. You've been followin' them the past hundred years, and you still are now. Ah saw you readin' them the day Ah agreed t' join the Brotherhood." She turned back to Mystique, her eyes flashing. "What's so important about a Sentinel parts factory? What difference does it make?"

She had thought Mystique would get angry, but instead her expression was sardonic.

"As with all these things, my child, it may make all the difference in the world, or none at all."

"Then why do it? Why be dictated by a bunch of unreliable predictions?" Rogue could feel the temper rising within her, the only emotion she'd felt in weeks. "If they meant anythin', Irene woulda been able to predict the military attackin' the mansion, and you woulda been able to stop it all! We wouldn't be in this fucked up excuse for a world right now! Why didn't she predict it!"

"Maybe," Raven replied calmly, "because it  _had_  to happen."

"Bullshit!" Rogue raged. " _Why_!  _Why_  did it  _have_  to happen!"

Silence. And then it hit her.

"You don't know why, do you?" she breathed, the truth illuminating her for the very first time. "You've  _never_ known why. For all these years, you think you've both been workin' towards somethin', some agenda, some secret goal, but when it comes down t' it… y'all don't actually  _know_  what it is you're fightin' for, do you? You don't  _know_  what lies at the end of all… _this._ "

At the words Raven's eyes flashed dangerously, and in that moment Rogue felt a querulous sense of triumph, the realisation that she held certain cards that her mother didn't and never would.

"Will you do this thing for us?" Raven asked again, after a long, tense moment, and this time her tone was dark. Rogue thought about it. She neither felt the need nor the desire to prove herself to the Brotherhood. What she wanted to do was prove them wrong. Prove that they had no hold over her, that she could still believe in Xavier's teachings and be one of them. That Irene's predictions were mere stumblings in the dark, that following them could bring you no closer to the truth, no matter how much you tried to bend reality around them. What mattered was faith, and integrity. And Rogue was going to hold onto that whatever they made her do. She was going to prove them wrong even if she died in the process.

In that singular moment she made a decision that she had no idea would change the course of her life.

"Ah'll do it," she said.

-oOo-

Irene had a little room on the second floor into which very few entered, and from which she only rarely made an appearance.

Rogue knocked quietly on the door, only to receive no reply. It seemed it was one of those unusual periods when Irene was out. Here, an opportunity presented itself very clearly to Rogue, and she couldn't resist the urge to enter the small room and see what was inside.

And so, she did.

She had entered Irene Adler's room several times before, but only briefly, and never by herself. Of all the rooms in the Brotherhood's headquarters, this was one that none of the other members - except Mystique, of course - had normal access to. It was a stark, sparsely furnished little study - the inner sanctum of a scholar, a writer, a thinker. Irene had, for a long time, been known under the moniker of Destiny. That was her mutant power - the power to look into the future, and whilst those visions were most often confined to the immediate and peripheral future, there were rare and brief occasions when her powers would flare into something altogether more dramatic.

In her younger days, many years ago, her power had manifested itself in a magnificent and all-encompassing spurt of activity that had robbed her of her sight. The product of these prescient visions was thirteen diaries that predicted many things - more often than not pertaining to the evolution and ultimate destiny of mutantkind. The story was old hat to Rogue. Irene too had been her foster-mother, as well as Mystique - the pair had been lovers for well nigh a century, and these thirteen diaries had guided them practically all of their adult lives. Whilst Rogue had never looked into the diaries, she'd grown up hearing about them, and had learned to accept references to them as normal.

She had been young then. What she believed now, as an adult - as someone who had experienced pain and loss and death - was far more prosaic than a bunch of old prophecies.

As she stood there, looking at the thirteen thick volumes either lined neatly on their bookshelf or spread out across the desk, she had the strong desire to burn them, slash them, tear them apart, do anything to destroy them.

Fate could not dictate her. That the rest of the Brotherhood members - Pyro, Avalanche, and Forge - allowed their own lives to be dictated by it appalled her. The books were the enemies. And she had come to this room with the express purpose of getting to know the enemy, however forbidden the subject matter would be. So she went to the little writing table, and peered down curiously into the book that already lay open on faded green baize. It was open near the beginning - she wasn't sure which volume it was, but this hardly seemed to concern her. Drawn in old-fashioned, purple ink, in an elegant and florid hand, was a spider web. And in the spider web were drawn faces she recognised from her own past. Scott Summers and Jean Grey. Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr, once known as Magneto… There were other faces, but she didn't want to know.

_Dead, all dead…_

Swallowing hard, she flipped to the middle of the book, her hand shaking slightly.

She nearly let out an audible gasp.

It was her, unmistakably her - she could tell from the white streaks clumsily painted in with watercolour. She was holding something in her hand, a small, brown, oddly shaped thing, like a pod, or a…

_A cocoon…_

Almost involuntarily her eyes wandered across the page. Latin text had been inscribed beside the picture, words she didn't understand.

And then there he was.

A man, with cards, the ace of each suit fanned out in his hand, a trickster with a knife at his belt. He was looking towards her, but there was a figure wreathed in shadow, standing behind him with a hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the darkness.

She recognised the image straight away.

_Remy…_

Horror filled her and she couldn't understand it.

Without thinking she turned to the back of the book, expecting there to be nothing but a few blank pages, but instead, on the very last page, there was a final drawing, emblazoned with fine, neat calligraphy in Latin…

A strange, rather crudely drawn picture of a bird that seemed to be on fire, reminding her of something she'd read about a long time ago, back in her old life…

"The phoenix," a mild yet conversational voice interrupted from the door, "rising from the ashes. The symbol of rebirth, of resurrection, of new beginnings."

Rogue slammed the book shut and spun round to see none other than Irene standing in the doorway. She wore the same plain, austere clothing, the same old rose-tinted shades, the same old innocuous charm of any little old lady one might meet; yet there was something formidable and indomitable about Irene Adler - the tenacity of old trees, or castles; of something impregnable and infinitely wise. Even the fact that she walked only with the aid of a mahogany cane did little to dispel this image, and her blindness, behind the perennial dark, rounded shades, only added to the unmistakable air of the sage. And as she entered, to Rogue's surprise, she was not angry. Instead she was smiling.

"I knew you were going to come, of course," Irene explained, shutting the door behind her as she did so, "so naturally, I'm not going to be angry with you. But I must protest at your lack of manners, Rogue. I would at least have thought you'd ask before looking."

Rogue said nothing, her emotions careening somewhere between anger and embarrassment. Irene merely continued to smile, and Rogue moved aside to let her take her seat at her desk.

"Ah'm sorry," Rogue garbled at last. "Ah just-"

"Wanted to find out if there was anything about a Sentinel parts factory in there?" Irene mused humorously. "Well, I can tell you now that there isn't. And before you ask, no - I haven't had any visions of you going into any factory. That was Raven's idea, and she told me you had some doubts about any part that I may have had to play in the mission. Rest assured, I have had none."

Rogue frowned. She hadn't been expecting this, and Irene's constant nonchalance unnerved her.

"So there isn't anythin' about my mission in there?" she asked rather dubiously. Irene merely sat back and seemed to regard her, although the idea was patently ridiculous since she was blind.

"Sometimes, what appears to be is not," she answered cryptically. "Sometimes, that which is of true significance is veiled behind that which  _seems_  to be of import. Never take anything for granted, my child."

"What do you mean?" Rogue retorted, brow creased in sudden frustration. "That there  _is_  a reason for this mission after all?"

The smile faded from Irene's lips and for a moment she almost seemed as frustrated as Rogue herself.

"There's a purpose in  _everything_ , Rogue. Surely you must see that by now. Your actions will naturally affect others - have  _already_  affected others."

"Then why can't Mystique or Pyro or Avalanche 'affect others'?" Rogue reasoned. "Why does it have to be  _me_?"

"Raven has already given you her reasons for choosing you," Irene replied, mild again. "Are they not enough?"

Rogue pouted. She should have learnt by now never to expect straight answers from Irene Adler.

"You had pictures of the X-Men," she muttered after a moment. "Are the X-Men still important then?"

"Very much so," Irene nodded.

"But they're dead."

There was a short moment of silence; Irene's eyes flickered.

"Did you not see the phoenix at the end of the book, my dear?"

Rogue considered it.

"Rebirth? You mean, the X-Men are gonna come back to life? But that's ridiculous. It ain't possible… There  _are_  no phoenixes…"

"But there  _is_  hope," Irene replied airily. "Why do you still wear that pendant round your neck, Rogue? Because it looks pretty?" She gestured to the necklace that rested, as ever, at Rogue's breast. "I think not. I think you wear it because it gives you hope. Because it holds memories. Not just any old memories, the random and insipid ones that come and go and hold very little significance. I mean  _specific_  memories, memories cut short by a tragedy that severed yourself from your past. But as long as you wear that pendant, the past is never truly gone, is it? The old you is never truly dead."

Rogue sucked in a breath, her ears ringing.

"Yah don't know…" she began, but Irene interrupted her gravely.

"No. I don't know. But I infer, from what I see." She tapped a finger against her head. "Prescience is to do with the future, Rogue, but Time itself is mutable. In reality, there is no past, and there is no future - only eternal presents. The past that you believe is dead lives. And the future is already all around you. Embrace it, Rogue, don't fight it."

"So you're sayin' Ah  _should_  go on this mission?" Rogue translated slowly. "That to do so would be to… embrace my future?"

Irene nodded, her smile returned.

" _All_  futures, Rogue."

_We are the faceless and the formless, wanting to become something complete and beautiful and whole, striving to become human…_

She took in a deep breath.

"All right," she finally returned. "Ah'll take your word for it, Irenie. But then, Ah guess that's all Ah have, isn't it? Your word."

"I prefer pictures," came the pointed reply. "They do, after all, say a thousand words."

Rogue shook her head hopelessly and went to the door. It was only when she placed her hand on the handle that the thought came to her, and she stopped short. But the words wouldn't come, and in the end she opened the door, putting it to the back of her mind.

_Remy…_

If Irene knew her thoughts, she said nothing, and Rogue stepped over the threshold and quietly pulled the door to behind her.

-oOo-

-END OF PART ONE-


	5. Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue goes on a mission to take down one of the main Sentinel factories, and meets the one person she never expected to - Gambit.

\- PART TWO -

 

_Autumn 2008_

She thought about the Diaries a lot, in between Mystique's relentless training regime. She wondered what was so special about these visions that had caused both Raven and Irene to chase them so single-mindedly for so many long decades.

If only she could understand those vague and symbolic drawings…

Cocoons, phoenixes, shadows, each symbol as personal to Irene as Rogue's own inner machinations were to herself. All mutually incomprehensible. It was better that she accept that she would never truly understand the motivations of her foster-parents, and that to do so would probably be dangerous. If she was going to die, she was going to be a slave to no one, especially not those accursed Diaries.

And so, for a while, she put all thought of them aside.

 

It was not hard to switch her mind off after a hard day's work. She had little time for leisure, and by the time her training sessions had finished she was too tired to do anything except trudge upstairs to her bed. And even then she found little respite. For many nights on end she would lie awake until the small hours, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the screams of those she had absorbed, screams that railed against her mind, that fought to be freed. Sometimes she slept, only to wake later sweating and weeping, her own screams joining the cacophony in her head. Often she would not know where she was, until she would hear the light tread of slippered footsteps outside her door, the soft tap-tapping of a mahogany cane. Irene was about, wandering and listening. Rogue would turn and bury herself under the covers, press her face into the pillow and try to convince herself it was all a dream, that the screams, the memories, the psyches, the Brotherhood were all a horrible, lingering dream.

No. It was no dream. She would hear the tapping of the mahogany cane come to a standstill outside her door, feel the presence of Irene as surely as if she had stood by her bedside and placed a mouldering hand on her shoulder.

But there would be no comfort from her demons, nor from Irene.

After a few minutes she would hear the tap-tapping again, fading off into the distance, disappearing only behind the baleful creaking of Irene's bedroom door.

-oOo-

Winter crept a little closer, on spindly hands and feet - the day of Raven's mission began to approach, filling her with an anxious, gnawing restiveness. Whatever Irene or the Diaries had in store for her that day, it was making its presence known in a quiet, lingering dread that left her lying in bed most evenings with a listlessness she hadn't known before.

At last the day came; Mystique's briefing was a formality she could have done without, but beggars couldn't be choosers and so she said nothing whilst she changed into her black, leather bodysuit and Raven talked at her.

"Forge has provided you with the tools you are to use on this mission," she said, indicating to the various contraptions laid out on the bed. "I think you'll find them useful, Rogue. Take good care of them."

There were a great many things that Mystique admired in the solitary Forge, or so Rogue had noticed, and his mutant ability to make anything he put his mind to was one of them.

"Don't worry," she replied firmly, going to the bed and clipping the various gadgets and gizmos to her utility belt. "Forge and Ah ran through them the other day, like you asked us to. Ah can fire those retractable rope do-hickeys better than Ah can use chopsticks."

Mystique looked sceptical, but Rogue ignored her, going to the mirror and tying back her hair into a rather severe ponytail. The last thing she needed was for her hair to get in the way of the job. She regarded herself in the glass with a slight frown. Her own reflection perplexed her. She rarely looked in the mirror these days. It was like looking at herself from a new perspective, from  _outside_  of herself, as though the creature she saw in the mirror was more alien than  _her_. But there was no time to mull over such things. She dropped her hands and quickly tugged the zipper up over her neck. She'd consciously neglected to take off her pendant, and she didn't want Mystique to notice. If anything was going into battle with her, it was that necklace. She grimaced. If Raven knew she'd have a fit.

"I heard you had a talk with Irene," Mystique noted airily from behind her, not quite done with the conversation, or, Rogue suspected, with listening to her own voice speak. Rogue frowned.

"That was weeks ago." She half turned. "What did she say?"

"That you looked in the Diaries." Raven's tone was slightly accusing.

"So?"

"They're not for you to look at," Raven returned peremptorily.

"Well sorry, but Ah figured that since you two are the ones sendin' me out to mah so-called destiny, Ah had a right to know  _what_  it is y'all are sendin' me out to."

"Your impertinence is wasted on me, Rogue," Raven replied coolly.

"Like Ah care," Rogue muttered rebelliously.

There was a short silence, an almost glacial one; Rogue busied herself with rearranging the things in her belt, hoping Mystique would get the message and back off.

"I know why you're doing this, Rogue," Mystique spoke at last.

" _Do_  you?" Rogue snapped hotly. "What'd you do - look it up in the Diaries?"

This time Raven refused to take the bait.

"You're doing this for your own entirely selfish reasons," she continued flatly. "To prove you are still an 'X-Man', am I right?"

Rogue said nothing. She wanted to goad her foster-mother, she wanted to get her own back. She wanted to say that Irene had told her that the X-Men still had a part to play in all this, however nonsensical it sounded; that perhaps  _she_  was the only one left to play that role, and that  _that_  was her part in this whole deranged prophecy. But to have said so would have been to admit that she believed in it, and so she kept quiet.

Raven stared pensively at her reflection for what felt like a very long time. Then she stood, laid a hand on her shoulder, and said:

"It's time you stopped clinging, Rogue. Even if the X-Men are still alive,  _you_  have changed, inexorably; what wickedness has been done to you can never be undone, not now. Why don't you accept what you are? Why don't you accept that you've changed?"

Rogue stared at the floor; after a moment she stepped aside, letting Raven's hand slip from her shoulders.

"Maybe Ah  _have_  accepted it," she murmured bitterly, shucking on her jacket. "Maybe Ah'm doin' what Ah'm doin' now because Ah have nothin' left to lose but my own integrity and a whole bunch o' useless mem'ries."

She was ready. She walked to the door, but as she reached it Mystique stopped her.

"Have you ever loved anyone, Rogue?" she asked. There was an odd note to her voice. At the words Rogue stopped, but did not turn.

"No. Ah never loved anyone. And even if Ah did, it wouldn't matter. He'd be dead now anyway."

_You see, there really is nothin' left to fight for, so stop pretendin' there is, Mystique._

She opened the door and slammed it shut behind her.

-oOo-

The thickset guy at the door was gaping.

Men often did that, when they looked at her. The only exception was the men closest to her, the men in the Brotherhood. Forge was more enamoured with bits of metal, St. John despised her, and as far as she knew, Dominic Petros had never had any stirrings in his life. Perhaps it was just as well, because she'd never been comfortable with the way men ogled her. Especially now that they could touch her.

"Ah'm the maintenance crew," she told the man brightly in her best magnolias accent. "Ah've been called out t' see to the air vents in Sector C."

She flashed the fake ID card Dom had prepared for her for the second time, but the security guard was too busy looking at her chest to notice, even though the hideous yellow overalls did her no favours at all.

_Lucky for me Ah decided to wear my trusty push-up bra today…_

"There must be some mistake, miss," he drawled thickly, his eyes still otherwise occupied. "The only problem we have with those vents are the rats. Besides, ain't it a bit late for us to be calling out maintenance?"

"Well, someone was obviously gettin' complaints about it over in Head Office," she replied, the false smile still plastered on her face, "because they rang up, and Ah was the lucky gal that got sent out. It's mah first week on the job," she added in a more conversational, honeyed tone, "and Ah keep on drawin' the short straw, if'n yah know what Ah mean."

She leaned against the doorjamb, put a hand on her hip and showed him her teeth. He could only smile rather dazedly in return.

"Well, lady, if it's a bother to you, then you might as well save yourself the trouble. We'll call in the exterminators tomorrow…"

"Uh-uh, no can do, sugah." Her countenance changed from dazzling to doleful in a trice. "Ah gotta make a report when Ah get back. Ah'm on probation the first month, yah see - gotta make an impression on the boss, or they're gonna cut me loose. Think yah could let me in and have a peek at your vents, just for the sake of appearances, hon?"

By this point she got the impression he would've let her have a peek at his anything if she'd asked, and so she wasn't surprised when he grinned slowly and held the door open a little wider for her.

"Sure thing, honey. But I'm kinda busy right now…" He indicated to a small TV at the back of the office, which was fuzzily displaying a heated game of football. "D'you think you could let yourself out when you're done?"

"Sure," she nodded. "No problem."

She lifted her toolbox and slipped inside. The office was dingy and cramped, and she suspected that she was the most exciting thing the security guard had seen in months.

"Sector C's on the left outside the office," the man explained, already sitting back down in front of his game. "Just follow the signs and you won't miss it."

"Thanks," she replied, and slipped out into the adjoining corridor.

 

She wandered as far into Sector C as was necessary, before sliding into a nearby storeroom and setting down her box of tools. Then she set about relieving herself of the horrible yellow outfit and stuffing it in a cupboard, which looked as if it hadn't been used in years. She blew a loose lock of hair out of her face and bent over the toolbox. All that running around in two sets of clothing had made her hot. She unzipped the top of her bodysuit to cool herself off, then opened up the toolbox. Inside was the gun Forge had neatly packed away for her that morning.

Rogue unpacked the gun and put it together with an almost loving sensation that was quite unnatural to her. Using guns of any sort had never been in her nature, but any invention Forge made was an invariable work of art, and she couldn't help but appreciate this particular contraption. Besides, this was a gun with a difference, and wouldn't be used to maim or kill.

If anyone gave her any grief, they'd be on receiving end of her mutant powers.

Rogue grimaced and slipped the gun in the holster at her belt. Then she rummaged inside the toolbox, finally finding the neat set of blueprints Dom had procured for her; she unfolded it and laid it out on the floor, trying to pinpoint her position.

There were two distinct parts to the building. The factory, which took up the east portion. A weapons testing facility, which took up the west. And a large storage plant, which housed the approved and finished products in a separate, highly defended north wing.

Her target was the latter.

Rogue folded up the map and stuffed it into her jacket pocket. She closed the toolbox, stood up, and shunted it into a corner with her foot.

_Time t' rock an' roll._

She exited the room quietly, closing the door softly behind her, making sure that the corridor was empty. There was nothing but the humming drone of the overhead lights, the walls of off-sickly white, everything standard government issue, claustrophobic, stale, sterile.

 _Just like every darn factory anyone'll ever see… S'like walkin' through a labyrinth. Lucky this place is sign-posted_. She set off in the vague direction of north.  _Even luckier Ah have a map._

 

To all intents and purposes, the place was dead. There was the odd guard she had to dodge, but on the whole security was rather lax. She didn't mind particularly - it made her job all the easier. It wasn't long before she found herself outside the storage facility and facing her first real obstacle of the evening.

The warehouse door, made of metre thick titanium, was something not even Forge's gadgets and gizmos could break through.

Rogue pulled at her lower lip with her teeth and hovered uncertainly by the door.

_Ah just need to get in there and get to those Sentinel parts…_

Footsteps rounded a nearby corridor and she scooted back into a nearby niche just as an armed Trask Technologies security guard rounded the corner and began to walk in the direction of her hiding place. She watched him advance with a growing sense of trepidation. The way into the storage facility was effectively barred, and tempting as it was to prove both Mystique and Irene wrong, an innate sense of pride refused to let her walk out empty-handed.

She bit her lip hard and closed her eyes. The man was drawing nearer, an opportunity presenting itself to her with every tread of his footsteps, unfolding little by little and as he walked past suddenly she knew…

The leather gloves were off her hands in a trice. A second later she was whipping out of her hole, reaching for him from behind, her fingers grasping the contours of a craggy and unfamiliar face… An instinctive moment of horror pulsed through her but it was too late now…

And she  _pulled_ … …

_…swear I could've heard something up there in the air vents… Must be rats… The number of times I've complained to Groover about the fuckin' rats and still he doesn't bother getting the fuckin' exterminator in… But who the hell am I to complain, I'm just Trask Technologies' freakin' dogsbody round here and my job's already on the line… Mandy's gonna kill me if we can't afford to get Frank into grad school next year… I was meant to have done better than this by now, I was meant to have my own studio now and be making music, but I'm still here in this fuckin' building day in, day out, with these godforsaken rats, and just what the hell IS making that sound up there anyway?… …_

She came to a minute or so later, crouched back inside the niche panting heavily; the guard she'd absorbed was lying in crumpled heap in the middle of the corridor only several feet away. She shuddered and shucked the gloves back over her fingers. This man's psyche was noisy and stubborn - it took her a while of focused effort to shake off the last vestiges of his personality and finally step back out into the passageway. The upside was that a little of his burly strength had been conferred onto her; she hoisted him over onto her shoulder with little difficulty and carried him cautiously back down the adjoining corridor.

_There are lockers back near Sector C… They should be out of the way of any bomb blasts… Ah'll just leave him in there… There ain't no way Ah'm gonna let anyone get killed on mah watch._

She grimaced.

_Mah stars and garters, wouldn't Xavier be proud._

Once she'd safely ensconced the man inside a nearby locker, she stood a moment to draw upon the well of memories she'd stolen from him, carefully analysing and picking details in the way Mystique had so diligently taught her. Diving into the stream of psyches was always a dangerous business - their querulous, often aggressive nature could easily have dragged her under with the threat of no return. But Mystique's training had been formidable, and within seconds Rogue had obtained all the information she needed. The annexed Sentinel parts storage facility was indeed locked by a titanium door that she had little hope of breaking through. But there was a hatch on the roof that was used both for maintenance purposes and for goods brought in and out by helicopter, one that wasn't so rigorously fortified…

_If Ah could get up there…_

She paused momentarily, hearing the faint sound of scuffling in the air vents above her. She looked up, smirking.

 _Looks like there really_ are _rats in here…_

She turned and made her way back towards the exit.

_Looks like Ah'm one of them._

 

The night was still and silent, but for the indistinct wail of sirens from somewhere over the horizon.

Rogue padded alongside the building, keeping inside the inky comfort of its shadows, her ears pricked and her eyes peeled for any sign of presence. Already the guard's memories were starting to leave her, each image she recalled becoming more blurred and hazier than the last. A sense of acute urgency filled her, lest she forget the precise minutiae of what she was looking for; she quickened her pace, the soles of her boots slapping a little too loudly on tarmac. It was something of a relief when, finally, she rounded a corner and found herself at the back of what appeared to be the storehouse; she pressed her back up against the wall of stark, grey, ugly architecture, catching her breath slightly.

And there was the ladder, exactly where his trusty memories had told her it would be.

She cast a quick look over her shoulder.

The coast was clear.

Quickly she heaved herself up onto the first rung and scaled the ladder, fluid as the widow spider. Once she'd reached the top she launched herself up onto the ledge, crouched down low and surveyed her surroundings.

_Clear._

She edged her way towards the corrugated metal hatch that led down into the factory's main storage room, slapped her back against the adjoining wall.

_Clear._

She swung round, flipping the gun out of the holster at her side and aiming it at the padlock on the hatch.

_Thik._

The silenced bullet shattered the lock, and she wasted no time in kneeling down to hoist up the door, which gave with an ominously loud series of rumblings and clankings. All she could do was inch it open as carefully as possible, her teeth set so hard it was painful. Then, finally, the hatch was fully open. She peered down the gaping hole and into the storage room.

It was a thirty-foot drop into the centre of the dimly lit warehouse, which was piled high with industrial metal crates. In each were vital components of Trask's Mark 2 Sentinels, the most effective mass-produced mutant killing machines in existence. Rogue peered down over the ledge, gauging the length of the fall.

_Land on the nearest pile of crates… Should give me a good enough shot at the others… Maybe twenty feet at the most… Okay…_

Graceful as the gazelle, she sprang from her ledge and into the space below, turning a perfect three hundred and sixty degrees mid-air and landing with a resonant  _thunk_ , crouched, atop the nearest stockpile of crates.

_Glad t' know all that trainin' in the Danger Room is still somewhere in there…_

She swallowed on the memories, standing slowly.

_Time t' get to work, Roguey._

She flipped out her gun again, ejected the magazine and slipped it into her utility belt, before producing and loading Forge's bombs one by one.

_Five chances… Better not fuck up._

She was enjoying this too much. For the first time since she'd woken up from that godforsaken coma she felt the buzz of simply  _being alive_. It was dangerous, to have a reason to live, however ruthless, however cold - but she'd have to run with it now. Armed, she aimed the weapon at the pile of crates furthest from her, pressed the trigger. Forge's bomb arched across the room and attached itself to the side of one of the crates with a reverberating thud. As soon as it was fastened to its host, it automatically primed itself, the red light in the centre of its spider-like frame flashing intermittently.

They worked.

 _Holy shit, Ah really am gonna blow this freakin' place to holy hell_ …

In deploying the first bomb she had crossed an invisible barrier, and after that it wasn't so hard to deploy the rest, methodically and systematically; a stillness had fallen over, a calm repose. What she was doing now, it wasn't so much terrorism as it was protecting her own people, her own kind; she was doing mutantkind a service, this was a badge to wear with pride. No casualties, no fatalities - her conscience could rest at ease. It was the perfect crime.

One, two, three, four, five. Within a minute she'd planted all the bombs and it was time to mosey on out. She had five minutes to get out before the place was blown to smithereens - she didn't even need to think anymore. With a detachment she hadn't known she possessed, she reached inside her belt, brought out another attachment, fixed it into the muzzle of the gun, and aimed at the open hatch above her.

Fire.

A clawed arm shot out, trailing a length of prehensile rope behind it; it flew out the hatch, arched slightly, and embedded itself in the roof. Rogue tested the strength and tension of the rope, and satisfied, began to shimmy up it with all the nimbleness she could tease out of her limbs.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

She'd never been so acutely aware of the time, and despite the calm that had till now kept her emotions in check, her pulse began a steady ascent, her breath was getting heavier, and sweat was beginning to bead on her forehead.

_Shit…_

She must have been within a foot of the hatch when she felt something give in the necklace round her neck, and she paused, catching herself, waiting with bated breath as she felt the chain uncoil itself… begin to slip out of her neckline…

She reached out a hand, instinctively going to catch it, but the movement jarred the rope, and she swayed precariously, jolting the broken necklace out of her neckline… A thin streak of silver, plummeting to the floor, and she grasped for it again with her heart pounding in her head, the rope swinging dangerously back and forth…

 _Clink_.

Swaying atop the rope, with only a foot or so between her and freedom, Rogue looked down and saw it, lying in an elegant pool some thirty feet below her, shimmering faintly in the semi-darkness. She looked up. She looked down. Indecision tore at her.

Leave it, go, and your life remains unchanged. Drop down, get it, and risk death.

_Each bomb is timed to explode in 5 minutes…_

She was cutting it fine, so fine… It was ludicrous that she should go back for something so trivial, and for those few precious seconds she fought violently with herself… Because it was only a  _thing_ , it couldn't speak to her, there was nothing it could intimate to her that she did not know already.

But it was what it represented. It was what she felt when she held it in her hands.

It was the last thing in her possession that linked her to the life she had left behind.

She couldn't leave it behind.

And suddenly she was letting go, she was sliding back down the rope faster than lightning, defying all logic, all reason, denying every rational thought screaming through her brain, telling her that this was madness, this was suicide…

She dropped back into the ticking time bomb, and suddenly she realised…

She wasn't afraid of death anymore.

The feeling she got, going back into a death trap of her own making, was pure exhilaration. Joy mixed with dread, a sense that for the first time in months she was truly alive, she was flying in the face of death and she didn't care if it took her anymore, because nothing was precious to her but that pendant, and if she didn't have it she would have nothing, no heart, no purpose, no reason to carry on living…

Death would be freedom.

She jumped clear of the rope, not caring that her escape route was now completely out of reach. All that mattered was that puddle of white gold on the floor and as soon as she landed, heavy and ungainly, she pounced on it, grasped it in one gloved hand.

She was still alive! The bombs hadn't gone off!

How long she had left she wasn't sure.

But she was alive, and now there was a reason to carry on living…

She didn't even think. She was running before she knew it, running to the only possible escape route she now possessed, the row of windows that lined the facing wall, and it was lousy cover, glass was  _always_ lousy cover… All she could hear was the laboured internal sound of her own breathing as she pounded back towards her exit with a speed and agility she felt sure she'd never possessed before. And there was a window, and she was never going to make it in time, and even if she did she wouldn't even be clear enough of the building to avoid the blast… …

But her survival instinct had kicked in now, it was either do or die, do or die…

The window frame careened in and out of her range of vision, swaying to and fro, just out of reach. And then, abruptly, there was a stillness in the air; such a silence she had never known before, hanging about her as if the earth itself could sense the impending impact, was readying itself for it…

With all the force of will she possessed, she hurled herself at that window.

Behind her, the air pulled inwards, a sharp, tangible tug and…

_KA-BOOM!_

Glass splintering around her, the sweet smell of fresh air, her body curling instinctively, hitting the ground, rolling…

The stillness had erupted into an almighty, unholy sound that left her ears ringing. For a few seconds, all her senses switched off; it was as if the world itself had shattered, as if everything - even herself, even time - had dissolved into mere molecules, and something flashed before her eyes, that day at the mansion, of hearing the screams and the gunshots and searching for  _him_  before feeling the explosion in her back, before feeling herself split apart into atoms before plunging into the blackness…  _and everything had begun, and everything had ended…_

She was caught in an acute awareness that this event and that event were somehow inextricably linked. Yet there seemed to be no connection between time and her movements. One moment she was on the floor, the next she was running, running blindly, her vision clouded, her ears still ringing from the blast. And then there was colour, blotches of red and orange and white whizzing past her at top speed… Fireballs and shrapnel…

The factory was churning out everything it had at her, chunks of metal and masonry were sailing above her head and landing in twisted, burning heaps all about her in a deadly rainfall and…

Something grazed her right arm, sharp and stinging as a pinprick, and her mind was screaming at her, the only thing she could hear…

_Duck and roll!_

She ducked and rolled.

Rolled right through the gravel and hit the perimeter fence headfirst.

_Get out, get out, get out… Get the fuck out…!_

Scrambling up that fence was like climbing Everest but the adrenaline was pumping too hard, her muscles were working with manic fluidity and somehow she managed it, she had reached the top and was practically free falling out onto the other side.

By this time her sense of hearing had partially returned and behind her she could hear the deafening roars of the other bombs going off. She paid them no heed. Again she ran, stopping only when there was sufficient cover to lie low in and reassess the situation.

She ducked quickly into the alleyway between two buildings and crouched, shivering, against the damp and drooling brick wall.

Screams, sirens, the thudding of footsteps, lights twisting out on the street like the whirling, coruscating colours of a kaleidoscope.

She curled into the shadows like a wounded bird coming to nest, opened her gloved hand. Wonder of wonders, the butterfly pendant was still there, ensconced tightly inside her palm. At the sight of it her breathing eased. She had taken a gamble, she had risked everything she had and she'd survived…

A peculiar sense of triumph flooded her.

She was alive. She had cheated death for nothing, for everything…

She tucked the pendant swiftly into her belt pocket. It was too dangerous to stay, she didn't have time to gloat over her small, strange victory. She had to get back to base point, collect her things and move on out. And she had to do it without attracting attention.

Her breathing now regulated, she stood and propped herself up against the mouldy brick wall.

It was only then that she realised it.

Her right arm, the arm that had clasped the pendant so tightly, was wounded. The pain crashed over her in a wave, stealing her breath away again, making her dizzy. There was a gash in the upper arm of her leather jacket, a large slash that was already oozing blood. Lodged inside the wound was a fair-sized splinter of shrapnel, half-embedded under the skin.

_Shit…_

She stood for a moment, leaning against the wall, eyes closed with her left hand cradling her injured arm protectively. For a long while the pain was almost unbearable and she could barely stand straight with the agony. It was a few minutes before it had subsided enough for her to see properly.

It was now or never. She had to go, while she could still make it.

Clutching onto her arm, she slipped out of her hiding place and walked east.

-oOo-

It was an effort not to run. Her whole body was screaming for her to do as the crowds where doing, to race for the nearest cover, but she simply couldn't, she had to get to base point… And the pain in her arm was radiating, warm and sharp, throughout her body, making her belly ache and her head swim. She'd been stupid, so stupid… she was never going to make it…Her vision was blurring, she could barely see, her nostrils were burning, ash was flitting over her eyes and she  _couldn't see_ … …

_God, please don't let me faint, Ah can't afford to lose control, not now, please…_

A rain of ash was flittering over the city. Rogue stumbled down the street, clutching her arm - even though this pained her, it was essential she stem any bleeding. The jostling of the panic-stricken crowd made it almost impossible to keep from jarring the injury - several times along her allotted path she thought she would pass out.

And then, there it was, the prearranged back alley, marked by the distorted red cross that had been painted, slapdash, on the side of an old dumpster. At the mere sight of that crooked red cross her survival instinct kicked in again with a vengeance. Somehow she managed to stagger the few steps towards the alleyway before gratefully sliding in. The crowd was in too much of a frenzy for anyone to notice.

Rogue edged her way further and further down the alley, until the shouts and screams and the klaxons and sirens were muffled by the tall, sepulchral concrete buildings that hemmed her in. About ten yards into the alley, there was another dumpster marked clumsily with the red cross. Rogue stopped in front of it to catch her breath. Her vision was clearing now; the pain in her arm had settled somewhat, but her limbs were still like jelly. She had to ignore it. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she levered herself up into the dumpster and began to scavenge around inside the mounds of fetid, rotting rubbish.

It was several minutes before she found her pack of supplies.

By the time she had climbed out of the dumpster, her breathing was laboured. She made no conscious effort to stop shaking now as she peeled off her jacket and examined her arm. It was bleeding freely, and the piece of shrapnel was still lodged inside it. Rogue bit her lip. She'd have to extract that now, by herself, or risk blood poisoning.

The first aid kit in her pack was very basic - the only available sharp tool was a pair of scissors, and it would have to do. She wasn't squeamish about these kinds of things and never had been, but nevertheless, gouging that sliver of metal out of her own right arm was a more difficult and finicky operation than she'd anticipated. The pain was so intense that her vision began to blur again, and she could barely see what she was doing. But at last, it was out - she threw the shard of metal aside, heard it clatter to the floor some way down the alley. It took a few more minutes for her to ease her breathing, and when she had done so she produced some fresh bandages from her kit. Having only her left arm free made tying them even more awkward than extracting the shrapnel - after five minutes she was brimming with frustration. She couldn't do this, she didn't want to, she didn't even care if she bled to death…

" _Urgh_!"

She threw the bandage aside fiercely, her eyes burning. Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted to cry. She'd done it. She'd done exactly what those Diaries were supposed to have told her to do. She'd betrayed Xavier, the X-Men, herself. And there had been no point. No vengeance. No pride. No victory. Not even death. Nothing had changed. All she felt inside was a hollow, aching emptiness. Whatever she had sought to prove in doing this, she'd hadn't succeeded. She'd failed. She'd  _failed_.

In the background, the klaxons were still wailing, red and blue lights were streaking past her little hideout, blithely unaware of her presence. The atmosphere was still thick with the scent and texture of burning, a texture that stuck to the insides of her throat and made her cough, but something inside her flared suddenly, a memory…

_Even in the face of oppression, Rogue, mutants are still human. We all eat, breathe and sleep, do we not? We all share the same dreams, the same hopes, the same feelings as the baseline humans. Of course, we may hate just as they hate us; but by the same token we are capable of love just as much as they are. Have hope, Rogue. As long as we share the same aspirations, as long as we share the same emotions and have the same ideals, we can never lose the dream for harmony…_

Yes - Xavier was right, he had always been right. She wasn't going to give up, she was going to chase down this dream as ardently as he had chased his… Even if it meant sticking with all this Brotherhood bullshit in the meantime…

She gritted her teeth, picked up the bandage, and knotted it over her injured arm with more force than had been necessary. Pain would be her penance. Every day until the moment there was peace, it would be her penance. She made no sound, shed no tear. From now on, all her suffering would be in silence. It would be her sacrifice for the dream, for Xavier's dream.

She was feeling a little better now. She remained crouching by the wall for a couple more minutes to catch her breath, then stood on firmer legs. Her eyesight had cleared, though she was now filled with an overwhelming tiredness. Tending to her wounds had taken more energy than she had bargained for, energy that she would need to return to headquarters.

It was done, it was over. She could leave.

She turned to pick up her bag, heard a sound, started.

And suddenly, through the mist of soot and ash that now permeated the city, there he was, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, staring at her.

 

Gambit.


	6. Stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue sleeps with Gambit, with the expectation that they might never meet again.

            Storm told me not to get involved wit' you.”

            She didn’t have a time frame for this.  It may have been nine months after she'd first met him, possibly ten.  At any rate by that time they'd known one another long enough for this particular scenario to have been routine.

            He had been sitting on the edge of her bed, toying with an unlit cigarette but dutifully abandoning all idea of lighting it because he knew how much she disapproved of his dirty little indulgence, one amongst many.  She'd been lying on the bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling and thinking that this was inevitably going to lead to one disaster or another, because he was in her bedroom again, because three hours of sweet-talk had left her burning with a fire he couldn’t quell, and because she was beginning to think that Storm had actually been right.

            This was all a beautiful, lyrical mistake.

            “Did she?” she'd asked nonchalantly, running a hand idly through her hair.

            “Yup.  But you wouldn’t want me t' go away, would you.”

            It had been a statement, not a question.  She'd stared at his back helplessly, unable to confess either way. The plain truth was, she had always been utterly unable to turn him away, and that night had been no exception.  From the very moment he'd asked her out to dinner they'd been doomed.  Doomed to flirting, doomed to empty promises, doomed to torrid romance, doomed to her taking him up here and doomed to him trying it on once again and failing abysmally.

            It was a miracle she'd even bothered going through the motions.

            When she hadn't answered he'd flipped the cigarette back into its packet and thrown it casually up onto the nightstand.

            “'Ro's probably right,” he'd muttered half to himself.  The next moment he had been staring down at her, each hand pressed into the pillow at either side of her head, his eyes gazing down into hers with fiery intent. “But I'd be crazy if I didn't try t' pin you down.”

            He'd been talking in _that_ way again, low, seductive, almost aggressive; aggressive because however much he pushed and shoved he'd never get her.

            “But yah can't,” she'd pointed out to him for about the hundredth time.

            “Bullshit,” he'd declared heatedly.

            “Not unless yah wanted to end up in a coma or somethin'…”

            “I don’t need t' touch your skin.”

            The declaration had made her quiet.  She'd stared at him.  He'd smiled.

            “Remy --”

            “For de love of all dat's sacred, chere, I want you.  Please don’t tell me t' back off again.”

            “Remy --”

            “You want me too, don’t pretend you don’t.”

            “Yeah, but it's just _lust_.”

            “So what?  Why do we have to wait until we're in-love and it screws us over?  Why don’t you want anyt'ing less?  Shit happens, chere.  Get used to it.”

            “Remy --”

            Her protest had been ineffectual, half-hearted - his hands had already been on her body, feeling her through the chiffon of her dress, and she'd closed her eyes, wanting it, wanting it more than anything, not caring if she hurt him, not caring if he hurt her and spoiled everything because she wanted to love him, because love was the only thing that could make her into the creature she _wanted_ to be…

            And she had let him, she had let him kiss her through the chiffon, kiss her breasts, her stomach, feeling the wet bloom open up inside her, feeling his hand on her thigh, snaking underneath her dress, his fingers on her panties, teasing against her softness… A moan escaping her lips as the fire exploded inside her…

_Too much, too soon, too fast…_

            She'd pushed him off her, panting heavily, her mind spinning.  It had been too close, too close, even for _him_ …

            “ _Stop it_ ,” she'd breathed.

            “Fuck, chere, you _want_ it.” He'd been panting heavily too. “You want it so bad it's screamin' at me.”

            She'd dared to look at him.  Fire, desire in those beautiful eyes…

            “Ah don’t,” she'd protested breathlessly. “Not… not like _this_ …”

            “We can't have it any other way.”

            “Tomorrow you'll be with someone else…”

            “I'll only be thinkin' of you.”

            Somehow that had made it worse.

            “No you won't, shut up!”

            She'd bolted upright, clutching her gloved arms about her, still shivering from the heat of his caresses.

            Silence.  She hadn't been able to look at him.

            “What are you so scared of?” he'd asked quietly.

            “You _know_ what.”

            “Is it really _dat_ , chere?  Or are you just afraid of goin' de whole way?”

            “You don’t understand…”

            “So tell me.”

            She still hadn't been able to look at him.  She'd hugged herself tighter.

            “Bein' with someone… with me, it's a matter of life and death, Remy.  There's just too much to lose.”

            “So you'll only let me get close to you when there's nothing left to lose, right?”

            She'd nodded.  Silence.  He'd touched her upper arm through her satin opera glove, as if reluctant to let her go; she'd still been shivering.

            “You sure drive a hard bargain, p'tit,” he'd murmured. “For yourself as well as for me.”

            He'd stood up; she'd closed her eyes, her breath still coming short and choppy, the imprint of his fingers still burning into the core of her…

            “When there's nothing left for you to lose in dis crazy world, chere,” he'd said, “you let me know.  I'll be ready and waitin' for you.”

            He'd left.

_Why, why, why had she been so stupid, why had she brought him up here, why had she pushed him away…?_

            She'd slumped back onto the bed, clutching herself tight, her cheeks, her entire body blazing.

            “Remy…”

 

            _Remy._

            She'd called his name a lot since then, in the darkness of her mind, where it was safe to do so.  In bed at night, when she lay with her face pressed into her pillow hearing Irene's cane tapping outside her door with the screams of her ghosts still echoing about her.

            There had never been an answer, no matter how much she had yearned and prayed and wished him into existence, or begged a god she didn’t believe in to bring him back to life and take her away from the intolerable agony of her life.  In time, she had come to stop calling for him; she hadn’t even whispered his name when she was alone anymore, because she had known he would never come.

            And yet there he was when she had least expected him, standing in that dingy alleyway with the ash floating around him, gazing at her with that same small smile on his face, as if the world hadn't changed one iota when everything in it had changed inexorably and she couldn’t get any of it back.

            “Nice work back there,” he greeted her casually, with just the smallest hint of congratulation in his eyes. “I guess you beat me t' de punch.”

            There was a short, split second where she had the faint impression that she had died, or was unconscious, and that this was a dream, or a nightmare, or a blocked memory replaying itself as her life flashed quietly before her eyes.  Every fibre of her being told her that Gambit was, after all, dead.  He had been dead for two years, killed by the military in the raid on the Xavier mansion that had slaughtered the X-Men.  Mystique herself had told her that _she_ had been the only survivor - there had been no other bodies, no other remains.

            Yet this was no dream.  She could smell, she could taste; and besides, dreams never held the quality of tiredness that she felt now, a tiredness of the soul and not merely of the body.  And he _was_ there.  He was nearly close enough for her to smell him over the stench of burning - cigarettes, leather, and that unknown, spicy aftershave that she knew so well, that caused her memory to leap into conscious hyperactivity.

            She said nothing.  Despite the knowledge that he was solid and standing there right in front of her, she still couldn’t quite believe her eyes.  But there he was, looking so strong and supple and beautiful when most mutants now went around looking gaunt, emaciated and haunted.  Words couldn't describe the feeling that sparked in her heart as she saw him standing there, and it was more than joy, or love, or passion.

            It was hope.

            “How long were you followin' me?” she found herself asking him instead, her tone one of forced neutrality, as if daring herself to believe that such a thing as hope could still exist.  Even she was surprised by her own nonchalance.

            “Since way back at de factory.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the fireball she'd just run from.  His voice was just as she remembered it - husky and sultry, insinuating itself into all her senses, drawing her in… Her heart trembled at the sound of it.  She knew now, with certainty, that he was _real_. “Got so surprised t' see you, I went ahead and let you take de credit for blowin' up dat shithole.  But, chere - while I thoroughly approve of de end result, I gotta tell y' you lack a whole lotta style.”

            She couldn’t believe it.  He was joking with her, bantering with her; it was as though not even a day had passed since their last encounter.  To hear it, to hear him speak to her as if time and space had changed nothing between them made her heart blaze wildly - with rebelliousness and defiance more than anything else.  As though the terrors of this world, of this mission, could have no hold over her.

            The shadow of a smile began to curve on her lips.  It was the first genuine smile that had crossed her face in years.

            “Lucky Ah don't care for your brand of style then, Cajun,” she retorted coolly, turning slightly to pack away her supplies.  He said nothing, made no movement towards her.  He merely watched her as she continued with her task - she knew this because she could feel his eyes on her back, on her neck, on her cheek; she could feel them enveloping every line and curve of her body with a voluptuous intensity.  They hadn't been together in one another's company for more than three minutes, had barely exchanged more than a few words, and yet already the old tension was palpable between them.  Rogue felt an involuntary blush creep up her cheeks.  She had always felt like this, whenever he had scrutinised her; he had never made a secret of the fact that he found her attractive, and now was no exception.  She found it almost surprising that despite the intervening years of pain, death and hardship, the chemistry still existed between them.  Somehow, passion felt out of place in a world where anguish and sorrow were the daily norm.

            When she'd finished, she turned round.  He was still standing there, in exactly the same position, watching her.  They stood there a long moment staring at one another through the rainfall of ash now flittering about them, not knowing what to say.  There were so many questions, so many that neither of them liked to ask.  Why was he here, what was he doing now, why was he still alive at all?

            All these questions and many more flooded her mind so abruptly that she didn’t even know where to begin.  And so, she said nothing.

            He was the one to break the silence first.

            “Dat cut dere, on your arm…” He pointed to the wound she had just bandaged, his voice casual, matter-of-fact. “You go to a hospital, they'll ask too many questions.” He paused, raised his eyes to hers again, added; “I can take you back to my place, fix it up for you if you like.”

            At the words, her heart throbbed painfully; the fire flared in her belly.  She could just as easily go back to base and have Mystique fix it for her.  But she'd known, from the first moment he'd appeared in that darkened alleyway, that she would refuse him nothing.

            “Yah have your own place?” she asked him in that same strange, neutral tone that bewildered her even as she said it.  His smile was lopsided, cocky, confident.

            “A safe house o' sorts.  Don't use it much.  Too dangerous t' stay dere more den a day at a time.”

            She _knew_ it.  Whatever it was he had been doing, whatever it was that had brought him to the Sentinel parts factory that day, it had been as dangerous and illegal as what she had been doing.  It didn't surprise her.  He'd always been that way.  Her heart sang with an odd kind of triumph.

            “All right,” she agreed, non-committal.  She grabbed her bag of supplies, hoisted it onto her shoulder, peeled the gloves from her hands and stuffed them into her pockets, slowly, deliberately, just to let him see, just to let him know…

            “No gloves?” he commented, eyebrow cocked.

            “Ah can control my powers now,” she informed him, her voice sounding even stranger than before, lighter, quicker, more breathless. “Ah can touch.”

            She didn't dare look into his face.

            “Oh,” was all he said.

 -oOo-

            There was no doubt as to what this all entailed.  No allusion was made to it, but it was as explicit as the fact that day followed night, that the moon rose when the sun went down.

            She went with it because this time she wanted it.

            She followed him because ever since he'd appeared to her in that alley she'd been presented with an ungodly chance she was never going to get again, and she craved it more than she'd craved anything else in her life.

            But most of all she did it because this time, there really was nothing left to lose.

            Neither of them said a thing.  Words were superfluous in the face of what they both knew would follow.  There was no contract to sign, no bargain to be made, no agreement to reach.  In many ways they had done all these things long ago, and this was the long overdue conclusion.

            Neither hurried toward their destination.  He led her silently and leisurely through the back streets to his Harley, which was parked in an abandoned alleyway the next block down.  She clambered up behind him reluctantly - this was the closest they'd ever been, the closest she'd ever been to _anybody_ , and that in itself unnerved her.

            He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her.

            “Hold on tight, chere,” he said.

            She placed her hands gingerly on his hips, feeling awkward for infringing into his personal space.  He smiled again, turned.  Then they were off.

            The journey was strangely exhilarating, not merely physically, but emotionally.  With every minute that passed she found herself clinging to him harder and harder, her hands snaking further and further about him, until her fingers were clasped together about his waist.  It seemed surreal.  Here she was, with a man she hadn't seen in years; not more than fifteen minutes had passed since that first encounter in the alley, and yet she already felt connected to him in a way that she couldn't explain.  The rest of the journey passed in a blur of streets and lights and traffic and voices.  She heard nothing.  She rested her head against the back of his trench coat, that old, familiar, leather smell, and closed her eyes.

            She didn’t open them again until they'd stopped.

           

            It was a filthy old quadrant of filthy old apartment blocks that appeared to be falling apart at the seams.  Light only poured out of a quarter of the windows; the rest were great, yawning chasms of black, disused rooms that had long ago been vacated for greener pastures.  By now the pain in her arm had gone numb, and she could barely feel a thing in her extremities.  The bandage on her wound was cold and moist, dark with blood.

            Remy parked the bike in an alleyway between two of the buildings.  He moved with a confidence that told her that he knew the place well.  When she clambered off the back seat he joined her, taking her arm and looking first at the bandage, then at her.  His gaze had been long and intense, making her blush, making her look away.  He had always looked at her in this way, making her feel self-conscious and embarrassed.

            In the silence, away from the sirens and the wails, away from the ash and the fire, he seemed different.  Maybe it was because he was closer to her than he had been back in that dingy alley that he seemed more substantial, more real to her.  She found a moment or two to study his face.  He was still very beautiful, handsome in that wolfish, rugged way.  His face hadn't changed much, but there were lines under his eyes now; eyes soulful and hypnotic as they always had been, making her feel naked in every sense under his gaze.  His entire body still exuded strength and grace, passion and cunning, danger and sex.

            Standing there with him made her feel, for the first time in years, like a woman, pure and unadulterated.  He made her feel vulnerable and sexy and timid and desirable; he confused and bewildered her completely, and yet she knew instinctively what he meant to ask her by pausing in this way, by looking at her.

            _Is this what you want?_

            She answered by returning his stare unflinchingly.

            He dropped his gaze, and she knew she'd accepted the moment with both hands - there was no turning back.  Her stomach churned with dread expectation.

            He turned and began to walk round to the front of the nearest apartment block, casting her only a fleeting glance before saying: “C'mon.” She followed.

            Inside the building was little better than outside.  Several of the hallway lamps had been blown out; there was litter strewn everywhere, mildew growing on the walls, cracks and chipped paint, and the elevators didn’t work.  A cold and uninviting stairwell had spiralled up forlornly towards a skylight that let no light in, for even in the darkness Rogue could tell it was caked in dirt and grime.

            “We'll have t' take de stairs,” he warned her.  She nodded and followed him up the stairs, which resounded dangerously with every step they made; he ascended slowly enough for her to keep up, and it seemed that she climbed for a very long time without any progress.

            At the fifth floor he stopped and turned off into a long, badly lit corridor.  She couldn’t be sure that anyone else lived in this part of the building, for everything was deathly silent, and there was the mouldy, fusty smell of uninhabitation.  Remy ignored all this, walking down the passageway with the briskness of habit - he stopped about mid-way down the corridor, and she followed close behind.

            It was a red door - once it would have been a deep, dark red, but now it was cracked and peeling, bleached under years of summer sunlight.  An old, quaint, gilt plaque had been nailed to the front - '554', it read.  Remy said nothing, producing a key seemingly from out of nowhere, and stabbed it into a lock - not the original lock, but one that had been fitted more recently and that looked more high-tech.  She didn’t have the time or inclination to ponder on it.  Her arm was now beginning to burn again and her legs were aching from the long climb upstairs.  Her gut was gnawing painfully, her nerves were tingling with anticipation.  It seemed to take him an age to unlock the door; when he did so, he opened the door with a flourish, and gestured for her to walk inside.

            She did so, slowly, uncertainly; the room was dark and smelt overpoweringly musty, and she could tell it had not been used in a very long time.  Behind her, Remy flipped a switch - the lights buzzed reluctantly into life, filling the room with a putrid, sickly glow.

            It was very small.  Into one room had been crammed a dresser, a stove, and a nightstand next to a double mattress laid out on the floor along with a meagre bedspread.  There was only one small window located in a wall adjacent to the mattress; opposite this was a door that probably led to the bathroom.  For a safe house, it was functional, even comfortable, but it was not attractive, and held no sense of personality or warmth.  To an outsider, it could easily have been a squatter's domain.

            She stood in the middle of the room, collecting her bearings only very slowly.  She could hear Remy behind her, locking and bolting the door – there seemed to be a lot of locks and bolts.  Though her arm pained her, and though her body was protesting, her heart was pounding with expectation and she felt sure he could hear it.  There was only one thing she knew.  Whatever was going to happen she wanted it, and she was ready.

            She was ready.

            He had finished locking the door, and the next moment she felt his hands grasp her shoulders, firm and reassuring.

            “Take a seat,” he murmured. “I'll be back in a minute.”

            She watched him sweep off to the adjoining bathroom, and when he was gone she walked uncertainly over to the mattress and sank down onto it.  There was a tenseness in her as she heard him open and close the medicine cabinet, as she heard him wash his hands; she couldn't explain the tension in her, as if she were waiting on tenterhooks, as if she had been waiting all her life for something that was finally within arm's reach.  She said nothing when he emerged from the bathroom, silent and efficient; he slipped the duster off his shoulders, slung it over the back of a moth-eaten old armchair, threw the first aid kit on the mattress next to her.  For a moment their eyes met - he broke the glance first, rolled up his sleeves, and moved to sit beside her.  She neither moved nor spoke when he removed the bandage, which was by now soaked with blood; she could feel the sticky dampness of it permeating the sleeve of her bodysuit, smell the metallic scent of it, strong and pungent, clinging to her.

            Still she looked ahead of her; the tension was a palpable thing inside her now, making her jaw and throat tighten.

            He touched her arm, gently, just below the elbow, murmured softly: “I'm just gonna undo dis a li'l bit… get your arm out so's I can deal with it.” He reached out with an ungloved hand for the zipper at her neck, and her throat involuntarily tightened a little more. “Do you mind?” he asked in that same quiet tone.

            She shook her head no.

            He undid the zipper, down to her waist - he was still careful not to touch her when he pushed the bodysuit back from her shoulders and away from her arms.  His whole demeanour was gentle, inoffensive, telling her he had no intention of hurting her, and she relaxed a little, helping him by shrugging the sleeves off her arms, though still unable to look him in the eye.

            If he felt anything at all when she bared her skin to him, he said nothing; having undone the bodysuit, he leaned over, pulled the first aid kit towards him, unzipped it - she heard him unpacking the supplies behind her, and she shivered involuntarily as the cool air crept over her now goose-pimpled skin.  To say she did not feel self-conscious, sitting there close to this man with only a bra on to cover her decency, would have been a lie.  And yet when he addressed her again, it was only to say: “Dis might hurt a little.”

            She nodded yes.

            But any pain she might have felt as he washed and disinfected her wound was lost in the gentle touch of his fingers as he tended her; her heart beat painfully within her breast, faster and faster with every minute he lingered there, so close, closer than she'd ever imagined possible.  That first time when his bare skin touched hers was a moment like no other she'd felt before or since, something indescribable and intensely, inexpressibly emotional.  He cleaned her wound, sealed, dressed it; and yet it was something far more - an awakening when she had not known she had slept.  Until that moment her flesh had been asleep to touch, and when he had finished she was trembling, her body fighting against a dam that had been broken, that could never be plugged again.

            And yet still she stared ahead and said nothing.

            He too was silent as he packed away the supplies, and when this was done she felt the heat of his gaze fall on her cheek, searching the contours of her face, making her heart beat even faster, but she could not look at him, she was afraid to see that look in his eyes…

            _Touch me…_

            As if he'd heard her he reached out a hand, brushing her hair from her shoulder, revealing her neck to him; she froze instinctively.  It was gentle, it was soft, but it was so incredibly alien to her that she couldn’t help her own reaction.  His hand did not leave her shoulder, stroking the soft curve with his fingers, trying to ease her, trying to make her relax, but if anything it made her freeze all the more; her stomach clamped with fear, with pleasure…  The palm of his hand, warm, unfamiliarly so, trailing down her shoulder blade, following the curve of her spine to the small of her back, lingering there, imprinting her flesh with a pattern never again to be matched… It was then that a small, soft, tremulous sigh escaped her lips.

            He felt it, heard it; his hand climbed again, this time to her other shoulder, stroking her, tender, so tender…

            “You're so tense,” he whispered.

            He was a little behind her now; both his hands on her shoulders in a light yet firm grasp, kneading her flesh, undoing the knots in her muscles, slackening the tension within her…  The massage was slow, sensuous, breaking her uncertainty, awakening that thing inside her with a flame so bright she could barely breathe.  His breath in her hair…

            _Kiss me…_

            And then his lips were on her neck, feather-light, puckering against her skin…

            She closed her eyes.

            Her heart was pounding so painfully she thought she would die with it.

            She couldn't remember the last time she'd wanted anything so badly.

            And he was still kissing her, still touching her, pushing the curtain of hair away, his lips on the back of her neck, on her shoulder, on her upper arm, her shoulder blade… Each kiss deeper, more insistent than the last, the wetness of his tongue teasing her tingling skin, skin that now ached for more, skin that was now greedy, drunk with his touch…

            His fingers slipped under the back of her bra, unhooked it, slid the straps off her shoulders; and she let him do it, shrugging the flimsy sliver of material off her arms herself because she wanted it…

            As though invited, his arms slid round, his naked, roughened hands caressing her breasts, softly, slowly, drawing a gasp from her, making her arch against him, arch away from him… It was too much, too fast…

            “Remy --” she breathed, sharp, pleading.

            “Hmmm?” His breath paused on her throat, warm, tickling her senses.

            “Ah-Ah…”

            It was no use - there was vocabulary for this, no words she could find to describe this wholly new emotion, this flame now burning inside her, new and untamed.

            “You want me t' stop?” he murmured into her ear.

            “Ah… _no_ … Ah just -”

            “Dis is just your first time and you're scared,” he finished for her in a low voice.  She swallowed, nodded.  She felt the warmth of his smile graze her left shoulder; his hands dropped from her breasts, leaving an aching, screaming gap inside her where this newfound emotion had awoken.  Wordlessly he shifted round to face her, and this time there was no escaping his eyes - she was powerless to remove her gaze from his, the power and intensity with which they held her, with which they ran over every inch of exposed flesh, and she knew with a dread certainty that he desired her, that she desired him, and that they had both come to this place only for one thing.

            And she would let him have it.  She would let him because there was never going to be another chance for anything better, not anymore.  Outside the war was raging, and this was always just going to be a little respite, a little comfort from the travails of the battlefield.  Anything more would a falsehood, a frivolity, a pretence of something deeper.

            And yet when he trailed a lazy forefinger over her collarbone, his eyes still holding hers, a flicker of a smile playing across his lips, she thought there was something too reverent in his touch, too worshipful in his voice as he said: “You're so beautiful…”

            His fingers left her clavicle, climbed her neck, unhurried, deliberate; his thumb traced her jaw-line, back, forth, back, forth, making her lids heavy… He leaned towards her, until their faces were only inches apart, his eyes burning red in the dimness, his voice drawling thickly: “I won't hurt you, chere… I'd never hurt you, not then, not now… Tell me you want dis and I promise I'll be gentle… I promise I'll take dis slow…”

            She wanted it; her lips parted to tell him so, but no words would come out, there was nothing inside her that could be explained with mere words.  But he understood, or she thought he did - for the next moment he had pressed his lips against her parted ones, his fingers in her hair, drawing her into his kiss.  She had never felt anything so soft, so delicate as his mouth on hers, owning her, his tongue warm and rough, brushing against her own, coaxing her, encouraging her, speaking to her in a way words could not.  For the first time she found herself reaching for him, instinctively; her hands on his back, holding on, holding onto this moment as if it could be shattered by a mere thought; her mouth responding to his kiss.  And suddenly something was blooming, unfurling inside the core of her, and she whimpered; and as if he knew the meaning of that whimper his kiss deepened, his fingers twined tighter into her hair, drawing pain, drawing pleasure…

            He nudged her back into the mattress and she made no protest.  His hands untangled themselves from her hair, before she felt them on her bare skin again, on her breasts, making her shudder, making her melt into the unfamiliar weight of him.

            He broke their kiss then, sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it aside - she reached out without prompting, running her hands over his long, lean body, familiarising herself with the strangeness of him, her eyes ravenously searching every hard contour of him.  He leant forwards again, kissed the underside of her mouth, said huskily: “If dere's anyt'ing you're uncomfortable wit', tell me when t' stop…”

            She nodded her assent, and he dipped his head again, kissing her mouth passionately before trailing his lips downwards, lavishing her body with ardent kisses, brushing against her breasts, making her pant; all the while his fingers unzipping the rest of her body suit, pushing it downward over her thighs, taking her panties with it… 

            She was wet already, burning with an inner fire he had stoked, and she choked, choked because she had never believed such a thing could happen to her, not ever.  His kisses were so delicate, so worshipful…  And at last she was naked, at last his lips were dangerously close to where that secret inner flame burned, and it was too passionate, too intimate, she wasn't ready…

            “Remy…” she breathed and he heard her, obeyed, kissed his way back up her body, finding her lips again…  While she was distracted by his mouth, he smoothed a hand over her stomach, her pelvis, sliding a thumb inside her wet flesh, circling her clitoris while his middle finger delved lower, testing her flesh.  She moaned, her pelvis bucking instinctively to welcome his sweet tortures.

            She was ready, oh Lord, she was ready…

            He was more beautiful naked than he was clothed.  Despite all the times she'd seen him like this in her fantasies, she had always half-feared the reality, feared to see what she did to him and what he did to her; but now, here, it was different somehow, so much more different than anything she had dreamed or imagined.  And she was less certain about what she wanted, now that the moment had come - this wasn't how she'd ever imagined it, but there could be no other time, no other chance, not in this brave new world of theirs…

            He settled against her, careful not to jar her injured arm, searching her face, seeing the hesitation inside her.  His smile was calm, reassuring; his fingers were light as they caressed her cheek.

            “Dis may hurt,” he told her honestly.

            She nodded.

            “I'll be as gentle as I can.”

            She opened her mouth and for the first time words came out.

            “Ah know,” she whispered.

            “Don’t be afraid t' tell me t' stop,” he murmured.

            She nodded again.

           

            And for a little while, nothing more was said.

  -oOo-

            At any other time, in any other place, perhaps it would have seemed strange, this silent agreement between them, this tacit understanding that this was nothing more than just sex.

            And yet to them it was not strange - it was a given that there could be no deeper emotional connection between them.  It was not some spontaneous decision both reached independently of one another - it was simply the rules of war, a code all revolutionary couples followed.  It had less to do with emotions than it had to do with the survival instinct.  To create an attachment was anathema, it was tantamount to suicide, and it was always going to get in the way.  No one could deny pleasure, that was a given - but attachments had a stigma of their own and were best left untouched.

            It was the reason why, for that night at least, most of their time together was spent in silence.  Neither asked whom the other was working for; neither asked what they were really fighting for, nor did they ask for anything more personal than sex; and they certainly didn't talk about anything as dangerous as love.  All were unnecessary risks.

            In every essence that night had been a disaster, a wonderful, terrible mistake.

            Even Rogue knew it, though she had no conscious comprehension it, outside of a strange and gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew that in that one sexual act she had forged an unbreakable connection with him. She'd allowed herself to do it, because he was a remnant of her jettisoned past, because she was attracted to him, because in all her fantasies of this moment, he'd been the one that she'd shared it with.  That night he'd taken her virginity and made her into a woman, and that was precisely what made this sudden sense of connection such a dangerous one.

            She knew it was there.  She knew because for the first time since she'd woken into this cold, dead world, she felt alive.

           

            “Ah thought you were dead.”

            It was the first words either had spoken since their shared orgasm; she was still flushed with it, still flushed with the awareness of what now lay between them.  As she lay there on the dusty mattress entwined with him, fingers splayed upon his breast, watching the rise and fall of his chest, he was closer to her than he'd ever been before, even though she knew less about the Remy of now than the Remy of yesteryear.

            He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, blew cigarette smoke at it.

            “I thought you were dead too,” he said, his voice oddly nonchalant, as if it wasn't unusual at all to suddenly find himself in bed with a ghost from the past.  She simply watched his eyes and traced her finger down the long, thin tract of scar tissue that marred his breast.  His body was covered with the faded remnants of old battle wounds; in a way they were beautiful, they told a story she'd never been able to touch before.  Maybe he'd got these scars from that fateful day at the mansion.  She wanted to ask him how he'd survived, but somehow she knew it was a question that was too personal and best left unasked.  She knew he was thinking the same thing.

            “Ah thought you were a dream,” she murmured. “When Ah saw you in that alley, Ah thought you were a dream… Ah still can't believe it… you're real… and Ah'm here with you.” Her voice lowered to nothing more than a whisper. “Ah'm here, touchin' you…”

            His smile was wry as he reached out and stroked her cheek delicately. “You ain't de only one, chere.  I can't believe it either.  It's like my dream came true.  We can touch.” He paused, his smile fading, his eyes going thoughtful. “First moment I saw you in dat factory, I knew somet'ing was different about you.  Guess dat's why I followed you.” He reached out, flipped a lock of her hair between his fore and middle finger. “Merde, dis is so screwed,” he muttered.

            “What is?”

            “Dis.  We meet, we hardly say a word to each other, and half an hour later we're fuckin'.  It's crazy.” He grinned suddenly, both charming and mischievous. “But den, you always _did_ whip all sense and reason outta dis Cajun.  If I'd been able to touch you, I woulda been screwin' you within five minutes of first meetin' you.”

            She didn't know whether to laugh or sulk at that.

            “Ah bet yah would have,” she ended up pouting playfully. “And here Ah was thinkin' bein' with the X-Men woulda taught you some restraint.”

            “Not even de X-Men coulda taught me restraint where you're concerned, chere,” he answered comically.  This time, she laughed, and he laughed with her.  It felt good.  It was only then that she realised that she hadn't truly laughed in months.

            “Do you think…” she asked in a whisper, once their laughter had died down, “do you think any of the others survived as well?  Not just us?”

            He raised the cigarette to his lips, sucked on it and stared down at her.

            “Y' mean you don't know?”

            “Don't know what?” she asked.

            “De X-Men…” He paused and she shook her head.  He looked away momentarily, blowing smoke, frowning as he tapped ash into the ashtray that lay on the floor beside him. “Some of them survived de attack on de mansion.  And there were others who were away from de mansion dat day, ones dat were captured later.”

            Rogue propped herself up on his chest and looked down at him, the animal hope he'd already sparked within her leaping, unbidden.

            “You mean… they're still out there?  Alive?  Like us?”

            His lips twisted into something wry, yet not without sympathy.

            “Non, chere.  Not like us.  Destroyed, beaten, incarcerated.  They ain't free.”

            “Neither are we,” she murmured half to herself.

            “True,” he mused. “But at least we're free to blow up factories, destroy Sentinels, and come up here and fuck.  From what I hear, de survivin' X-Men were put in secret internment camps dotted across de country.” He took another drag, his gaze on hers, watchful. “They prob'ly bein' tortured… Or worse.  Who knows.”

            She looked away, biting her lip, unable to contain this thing inside her.  His words were the first and truest tokens of hope she'd been given in this bleak and unforgiving new world of theirs; for the first time there truly _was_ something to fight for, there _was_ a purpose in all this pain and misery; she _was_ a true rebel, a true soldier in a real fight for freedom she'd never truly believed in, and now it seemed so fitting, so fateful that the two of them should have crossed paths once more, that perhaps they'd been brought together to _fight_ together…

            “Then we haveta save them,” she began decidedly. “We can find them, free them, _together_ … bring them back, be a family again…”

            He was still staring at her with those dark, dark eyes, assessing the sudden fervour that had crossed her face.  He merely brushed her hair from her shoulder and said nothing, making her frustrated and impatient.

            “Remy, let's do it…”

            His fingers lingered on her cheek, stroking her lightly, his gaze pensive.  At last he smiled wanly and said: “Okay.  We'll do it.”

            It was an illusion, a pretty fancy - even she knew it, but it strengthened her sense of triumph, that the two of them alone possessed the knowledge and the power to conquer the world.  She burrowed into his warmth then, and he drew an arm about her shoulder, pressing her closer, his fingers teasing her skin with light, fleeting caresses.  He was making her stupid and bold, making her want to ask things she shouldn't…

            “Remy?” she found the word suddenly spilling from her mouth.

            “Hmm?”

            She paused, took a breath.

            “You really believe in it then?”

            “Believe in what?”

            “In what Xavier taught us.  That it makes a difference.”

            Somehow it seemed more important to her than anything else…  His hand did not stop stroking her shoulder.

            “I dunno.  Maybe.”

            “Then why are you still fightin'?”

            “Am I fighting?” She felt him lean over slightly to stub out his cigarette, and when this was done he put his other arm round her. “I dunno if it's fightin' dat I'm doin', chere.  Just scrapin' by, maybe, but not exactly fightin'.”

            “But you were at the factory today,” she protested. “You were gonna blow it up too…”

            “Non. Dat wasn't my mission.  Not entirely anyways.” There was a pause, and she could tell he was calculating just how much he should tell her; when next he spoke his tone was measured, cautious. “De powers dat be tell me t' find mutants.  Find them and break 'em loose.  It's what I do.  It's how I make my livin'.  It pays well and it provides me wit' de ever-essential cheap thrills.” She felt him grin to himself; it made her smile too. “Dat factory you were in today… There were some mutants in there; Trask's cronies were gonna test de new Sentinel prototypes on them.” This time he didn't even attempt to hide the contempt from his voice. “I freed de prisoners and decided I'd torch de place afterwards, just to make 'em hurt a little more.” He paused, continued in a helpless tone of voice: “Den you showed up.”

            She was silent a moment, weighing this information in her mind - she sensed it was as much as she was going to get from him.  She didn't even know how much of it was the truth.

            “Ah didn't know there were mutants in there,” she said at last.

            “Would you have saved them, if you'd known?” he quizzed her.  She slid an arm round his waist, breathed in his scent, the heady aroma of cologne and tobacco.

            “Yes,” she said at last, her voice muffled in his chest.

            “Hmm.  Because you're a fighter, and you're passionate about what you do, huh?”

            “It's what Ah do, sugah.”

            “Well, there's one t'ing I always knew about you, chere,” he began teasingly, his left hand trailing down her arm and lightly tickling her waist. “And dat's dat you're passionate about just about everyt'ing you do.”

            She snorted.

            “Ah was, back then.  But life suckin' the way it does nowadays makes it kinda hard t' be passionate about anythin'.”

            “Non.” His hand moved to tenderly tilt her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. “You still are.  For a virgin,” he added with a wolfish grin.

            “Ah ain't a virgin anymore, thanks to you.  And besides, virgin's can be sexy too, swamp snake,” she drawled with a wealth of meaning.

            “Really?” He cocked a playful eyebrow. “I always wondered what de old, untouchable Rogue got up to in her fantasies.  It was enough to keep me awake all night.”

            “Ah just bet it was,” she sniffed.

            “Aw, come now, chere,” he bantered back lazily. “Didn’t I keep you awake at night too?”

            She couldn't help it.  She blushed.  For the first time, he laughed loud and deep.

            “No wonder real-life sex wit' you is so good,” he joked seductively. “De Rogue's had practice.” Her blush grew even deeper, and from his expression she could tell he enjoyed getting under her skin. “So,” he asked cajolingly, his eyes dancing, “does de reality measure up to de fantasy den, p'tit?”

            “And then some,” she murmured, refusing to give him the benefit of seeing her further embarrassed.  He chuckled.

            “I'm always glad t' be of service t' such a beautiful femme.” He captured her lips in a passionate kiss before she had time to reflect on the implication of his words.  By the time they'd broken apart, she didn't have the heart to question him anymore.

            “It's a good t'ing though,” he muttered half to himself, his eyes back on the ceiling.

            “What is?” she asked, yawning.

            “Dat you can touch.  Always thought it was a waste.  God couldn't have made a body dat soft and beautiful for not'ing.”

            _It's all for you, Remy…_ she wanted to say.  _It's all for you…_

            He touched her cheek again and she nestled against him, knowing that tomorrow they would part, that all these pretty words meant nothing.  And yet she could not allow herself to regret.  She could never allow that. She had come here accepting that one single fact, and yet now, as sleep enveloped her, as she held him to her as naturally as if they'd always been together, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was one connection that would not break… …

  -oOo-

            Once the morning came, she knew she had been foolish to think so.      

            She woke to sunlight, pale and shimmering through the dusty windowpane, colouring her face with a watery yellow.  Her wounded arm was aching dully and she rolled onto her side, reaching for him with her uninjured arm; but he was gone. The charade was over.  Whatever they had said the night before had been banished; it was as if it had never happened.

            It was cruel, crueller than she'd thought it would be.

            She opened her eyes.

            He was fully dressed and leaning on the windowsill, smoking, looking out of the open pane with a small frown on his face.  Outside the air was still thick with the stench of fire; the faint sound of sirens still drifted over the horizon.

            “We should both be gettin' back,” he murmured. “They'll be wonderin' where we are.”

            No other clarification was needed.  She knew what he meant - that if she stayed with him, if they ran away, they would be chased to the ends of the earth.  And Mystique… Mystique would never let her go, not for a man, and especially not for a man who would never have her.  Especially not for _him_.

            She didn't care.  She didn’t want to go back, not ever.  She was prepared to leave it all behind in an instant - all he had to do was say the word.  But even then, in her naïveté and her innocence, somehow she knew he would not.  She wasn't enough for him to change; she never had been.

            She wanted to weep and wail and cry against the betrayal, the loss.  Because he had changed _her_ ; he had made her into something new and different, he had opened her eyes and somehow she knew she would never get the old her back.  He'd stolen what innocence remained in her, thrown it back in her face.  But she could not blame him for this - she had walked into this room knowing it would never be anything more intimate than sex.  It was for this reason that she swallowed back her agony, the ugly fist now clenched about her heart.  Wrapping the grubby comforter round her, she stood, crossed the room and went to him.  He hadn't looked at her when she put her arms round him.  His body was tense and unfeeling as bamboo.

            _You've got to accept me, Remy,_ she thought desperately to herself, _you've got to accept the creature you've turned me into…_

            Somehow, he felt her unspoken call.  His arm slipped round her shoulder, squeezed it in weary and half-hearted reassurance.  It wasn't nearly enough but it was the most she could expect, and she was grateful.

            “When will Ah see you again?” she finally found the courage to whisper.

            He was silent for a long moment.

            “I don't know,” he replied at last.

            She knew what he meant to say.  _There won't be another time._   She wanted him to say it.  She wanted him to take responsibility for the terrible thing he'd done to her, for him to apologise and tell her it had all been a mistake.  She wanted him to say he'd used her, that she meant nothing, that he had no intention of there ever being anything between them.

            She wanted to hear it so that this could be easier, that she could look back on this moment without wishing him back every last day of her life.

            Instead he turned and took her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes for a long while, brows creased, that small frown still touching his lips.  It was as though he was searching for something in her face and could not find it.

            “I haveta go,” he finally said in a stern tone, as if daring her to challenge that fact.  His fingers were hard on her bare shoulders.

            “Ah know,” she merely replied.

            There was a long, awkward interval where nothing was said or done; she stood, uncertain, not knowing how this should end or what he wanted.  At last he lent forward and she thought he would kiss her forehead, but instead she felt his cheek in her hair, his breath against her ear in a clumsy caress.  She closed her eyes and waited for something more that she knew would never come.

            It was finally over.

            He stepped back, half-smiled, picked up his pack from the floor beside him.

            “Bye, Rogue,” he said.

            “Bye,” she whispered.

            She was still standing at the window when she heard him go.

 -oOo-


	7. Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambit finds himself consumed by an unexpected obsession.

_Spring 2009_

 

_“But no, I won't go for any of those things,_

_To not touch your skin is not why I sing,_

_I can't help myself,_

_I've got to see you again…”_

           

            There was the slightest curve of a smile on Remy's lips as he half walked, half skipped down the sidewalk and threw a ten-dollar bill into the beatnik hat of the pretty busker playing guitar on the street corner.  The girl stared and blushed when he winked at her, her song faltering mid-sentence and making a few of the audience laugh at her apparent bemusement.

            He liked her.  He liked her song and he liked her voice.  He hoped she'd remember him for more than just the ten-dollar bill.

            He let his eyes linger on her for just a moment longer before he sprinted across the street and navigated the traffic with an utterly unexpected elegance that left the pretty busker quite breathless.

           

            It was late afternoon and the shadows were starting to fall heavily on the small ammunitions store that was sandwiched gracelessly between the rundown bar and the boarded up grocery store, which had been boarded up ever since the murder of some good-for-nothing mutie the summer previous.  Remy stepped up towards the ammo store with the same jauntiness of step that he'd walked down the sidewalk and across the street.  He pushed open the rickety old door, rang the same old bell and walked up to the same old counter past the usual dull and dusty old shelves.

            It was the usual femme who stood behind the counter, polishing the usual .22 Smith and Wesson with the same self-possessed expression on her face.

            As far as he was concerned, she was the only thing _Murray's Guns_ had going for it.

            He approached the counter with the same roguish smile that he always greeted her with and said: “Hey Rita.  Still not broken into de film industry yet, I see.”

            The woman put down the cloth and the Smith and Wesson with a haughty eyebrow raised on her pretty face.

            “Yet again you prove to me that you never listen to a word I say when we're together.  It isn't the film industry I'm trying to break into.  I wanna be a stuntwoman.”

            “Well I can't help it if I find myself more interested in de other t'ings you've got on offer here,” he quipped meaningfully. “But I will say dat I have first-hand knowledge of just how athletic you really are, chere, and so I can most definitely say dat de stunt industry is doin' itself a disservice in not hirin' you.”

            The woman narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion and placed a hand on a well-rounded hip.

            “Keep the compliments comin', Remy.  You're gonna need a helluva lot of them.  I ain't seen you in months!  Where have you been?  Or should I say, _who_ have you been _with_?”

            He grinned.  He didn't believe for a moment that she actually gave a shit.

            “Chere, surely you should know by now dat I only have eyes for you,” he drawled, propping his elbows on the counter and gazing at her seductively over the top of his shades, to which she merely rolled her eyes.

            “It's not like I care or anything, LeBeau,” she informed him hotly. “You just never paid Murray for those blades you bought last summer, and he's pissed at you.  I mean _really_ pissed at you.”

            “He wants money?” Remy replied casually and dipped a hand into his trenchcoat pocket. “Fine.” He pulled out a whole wad of bills and slapped it on the counter in front of her.  She stared at it a moment, gave him a look and said: “Been moonlighting again, I see.”

            “De best jobs always come by night,” he said, removing his shades and winking at her, which she ignored as she proceeded to count out the money he owed with a fastidiousness he always found amusing.

 

            Ricochet Rita, as she was known by all and sundry due to her amazing athleticism (of which Remy could attest to with firsthand knowledge), was a pretty woman of about twenty-seven years of age - not pretty in the conventional sense of the word, but rather unusual in her looks, with long, silky, bone straight jet black hair, pale blue eyes, white, freckled skin and a wide, sensuous mouth.  She was sassy, she was larger than life, she was free-spirited.  She had no illusions about life and made sure you had no illusions about who she was and what she wanted.  She was passionate and headstrong and sometimes shockingly amoral.

            She was, of course, a baseline human, but she had no qualms about associating with mutants.  The only people she held in disdain were stupid, ignorant people, and she often said so.  The shop she owned with her on-off husband/partner/arch nemesis, Murray, welcomed mutants just as it welcomed statics - so long as they had the cash to pay for their receipts, of course.

            There were a lot of reasons why Remy liked her.  These were just a few of them.

            “So,” Rita began when she had finished counting out the exact amount of money owed, had opened the cashier desk, neatly arranged the dollar bills inside, and handed him his change, “what brings you here then, LeBeau?  I was beginning to think you'd never show up again.”

            “Admit it, you missed me,” he cooed.

            “Don't flatter yourself,” she shot back just as fast, and he raised his hands in self-defence.

            “Actually, I came to get the usual,” he replied nonchalantly.

            “Half a dozen of our finest blades, huh?” She bent down under the desk and the next moment had popped up again and slapped a squat parcel onto the counter in a cloud of dust. “Murray figured when you came back you'd be wanting some.  He even packed 'em away for you, all nice and neat and tidy.  Bit dusty now though, as you can see,” she added dryly. “Say what you will about the man, but he's organised, and he's reliable, unlike some I could care to mention.”

            “You ain't gon' let dis lie, are you?” Remy sighed dramatically, counting out dollar bills again and handing them to her, which she immediately pocketed.

            “Not on principle, no,” she retorted pointedly. “Don't misunderstand me, Rems.  I don't really care what you get up to in your 'leisure' time, but I don't care for bein' stood up.”

            “Aw, chere, you know how it is wit' business.  Sometimes it gets in de way…” He took the parcel and stuffed it inside his duster.

            “Fun and games is one thing, and believe it or not, I could do without them,” she told him flippantly. “But wining and dining is an entirely different matter.  Do you know how hard it is to get Murray to even entertain the idea of taking me out to dinner?” She sighed. “He hasn't taken me out on a date in four years - stupid fat oaf,” she added with a helpless affection that she couldn't quite hide.

            It was moments like these when Remy could see that she really did love her husband - though he never understood why, since Murray was everything Remy was not in the sex appeal stakes - stout, sallow, wheezy, and with a rather prominent beer gut.

            “So where is he anyway?” he asked, glancing about the otherwise empty store.

            “Out of state.  Picking up some rare supplies.  Probably those knives you keep doing us out of.” Her smile was wry.

            “You miss him.”

            “Hmph.  God knows why, but I do.  He's a bumbling ignoramus, and you know I hate anyone who's a bumbling ignoramus, but then, Murray's not like most bumbling ignoramuses, and most ignoramuses are most definitely not like Murray.”

            “Oh.” He twitched an eyebrow petulantly. “So you miss de bumblin' ignoramus but you don't miss me.  Chere, you are breakin' mon coeur.”

            Her expression was sarcastic. “Remy, you _have_ no heart.  But yeah, I miss you.  Not the way I miss Murray - but then, it's not the same kind of things I miss.”

            He leaned against the counter again, grinned his most charming grin. “Lemme guess.  You miss him for all de fights and de cuddles and de holdin' hands and shit.  And you miss me for de cheap thrills dat keep you goin' in de meantime.”

            She gave him something between a pout and a scowl.

            “Sex ain't everything, you might be surprised to hear.”

            “Yeah, but it's a lot of t'ings to a lot of people, especially when dey're lonely.  Dat's why you miss me when I'm gone.”

            He wasn't smiling now.  Something had occurred to him, and it had been the first time it had occurred to him in months.  He pushed himself off the counter, feeling their flirtation had lost its lustre.

            “I'll see y' around, Rita.  Send my regards to Murray, when you see him - not dat he'll care for them either way.”

            He turned to go, but before he could slip his shades back on she'd stopped him.

            “Remy?”

            He halted, turned.  She looked a little sheepish underneath all the brass.

            “I'm free tonight, if you're up for some light entertainment.”

            He reached for the placard on the door, swivelled it round to 'CLOSED'.

            “I'm free now,” he said.

 -oOo-

            Remy always came back to Rita for two reasons: first because he liked her, and second for the sex.  The sex was passionate yet meaningless and thus safe.  The fact that he liked her meant that he could come back as much as he wanted without fearing that he would fall in-love with her; he also half suspected that he liked her because she was in-love with Murray, which meant that she would never fall in-love with him.

            It wasn't quite a marriage of convenience - it was far too complex for that.

            It was a connection based on need, and one that happened to be very convenient indeed.

           

            That night the act had been totally perfunctory and without any unnecessary strings attached - it was always this way.  Afterwards Rita lay and stared up at the ceiling, running her fingers through her long black hair, while he sat and smoked a cigarette.  She was always very quiet - he wondered whether her heart panged because she cheated on her man in their marital bed.  He figured that someone should be feeling guilty, because he sure as hell wasn't.

            Presently she sat up too and he lit a cigarette for her because he liked her, and because he was a fair man and he liked to show his gratitude.

            They sat and smoked for a while saying nothing.  He admired her insouciance; he admired the way her dark hair played upon her white skin.  He admired a great many things about her but for totally selfish reasons because they made him feel good about the fact that he was having an affair with a married woman.

            Tonight none of this really mattered, because his heart hadn't really been in it, and frankly he could've done without the excursion, if it wasn't now something of a habit.  Something he'd said earlier on had made him pensive and thoughtful, which was never good for anyone's sex life.

            _Sex is a lot of things to a lot of people, especially when they're lonely_.

            Oh God, he was going through one of those maudlin, philosophical phases again.  He knew he shouldn’t have listened to the song that pretty busker had been singing, even though he'd been under the impression that all he'd been doing at the time was flirting with her.

            _Merde_.

            It had taken him six months to work it out.  Six months for him to work out that every day of those six months his mind had been on someone else, and that he'd fucked Rita today out of pure frustration because he really wanted to fuck that someone else.  It wasn't a pleasant feeling.  He felt as if his own brain had outmanoeuvred him and called ' _checkmate!_ '

            “Murray,” he suddenly said, because he didn't really want to think and saying pointless things was infinitely preferable. “D'you know when he's comin' back?”

            Rita stretched, luxuriant, cat-like.

            “He said he'd call on his way back.”

            He decided he'd talk some more, since it was doing the job of making his mind not think.

            “Would it bother you?” he asked. “If he came back and found us here like dis?”

            She pressed the cigarette to her lips and sucked.  He liked the way she did that too.

            “If he'd rung before you showed up, I wouldn't have closed up shop just for your benefit,” she answered, blowing a perfectly-formed ring of smoke and watching it travel a few inches before fading. “Does that answer your question?”

            He shrugged.

            “Murray's a good guy,” he remarked unnecessarily. “And I don't like doin' good guys out of anyt'ing.  But I like you.  And I like bein' wit' you.” He pulled aside the covers and slid out of bed, ignoring her curious look.  Outside the window darkness had fallen, purply and indigo, over the courtyard below.  Electric lamps buzzed implacably, spilling their sickly yellow light into Rita's little bedroom.  Remy leaned against the window frame, slid the pane open with one hand and looked out.  The sky was starless, the little square below soulless.  For a long while he stood there and said nothing.

            “Something tells me you're a little distracted tonight, Remy,” Rita's voice came from behind him, low, conversational.  He grunted, non-committal, and tapped ash out of the window.

            “Anything you care to talk about?” she asked.  He half-laughed.

            “Not really,” he said.

            “Bullshit,” she replied a little begrudgingly. “You've been distracted ever since we got here.” She paused, and then said in an irritated tone: “So come on - who is she?”

            Another thing about Rita was that she was never jealous.  That was probably what he liked about her the most. He stared at some indeterminable point in mid-air and pulled on his cigarette, before letting out a long, lingering breath.  It was no good.  Talking wasn't going to stop him from thinking about her, so he might as well talk about her anyway.

            “Slim, about five-eight.  Brunette.  Green eyes.  Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five.  Mile long legs and de softest skin you'll ever touch.  Lips like dynamite.”

            Behind him Rita leaned over towards the nightstand and flicked ash into an ashtray, her expression nonchalant.

            “What's her name?” she asked.

            He stared at that same indeterminable space for a moment.

            “…I dunno…” he finally murmured.

            Rita pursed her lips and stared at the blue and white pattern on the bedspread in front of her, which had always seemed to her to hold the quality of cheap, mass-produced china.

            “You known her long?” she probed at last.

            “Yeah.  Four years, maybe,” he answered.  She whistled.

            “You never told me you were in a long-term relationship, LeBeau.”

            He gave a mirthless laugh. “I'm not.” He paused, shifted slightly, turning his back fully on her.  Standing there naked in the reflected lights of the street lamps, it struck her how perfectly beautiful he really was.  It was a beauty that made him wonderful to look at and wonderful to make love to, but there was always a coldness about him, a sense of to have and not to hold, and as she looked at him standing there it also struck her how incredibly lonely he seemed.

            “Then -?” she said, but he answered her before she could even get the question out.

            “Hadn't seen her for years, I thought she was dead.  Then suddenly, last fall, dere she was.  Like I wanted her so bad I made her real again.” He tilted his head, as if musing to himself. “I guess I had to touch her, just t' make sure she was real.  And she was.  She was real.  And you know me.  Once I touch somet'ing I gotta steal it.  I gotta have it.”

            Rita simply smiled and stared at the smoke rising out of her cigarette.

            “It was de first time I made love to her,” he continued in a husky undertone. “Spent years tryin' t' chase her down and den it finally happens… Now of all times, in dis godforsaken, fucked up excuse for a world.  Dieu, it was so perfect…”

            He looked out again; the moon was invisible, wherever it was.  Rita still had the half-smile on her face.  For the first time she really felt like she was touching the man named Remy LeBeau.

            “And where is she now?” she asked quietly.

            He shrugged, scratched his left arm, took a drag.

            “I don't know.  She's in de business - she could be anywhere, doin' anyt'ing.”

            “And that's why you're here with me?” she probed lightly, tapping the cigarette over the ashtray with a small frown on her face. “Instead of with her?  'Cos she's in 'the business', and relationships are outside of 'the business'?”

            “Relationships?” He laughed coldly. “It ain't got not'ing t' do wit' relationships.  You and me, we have a relationship, Rita - it's strictly business, but dat's fine.”

            “So what's not fine?” she inquired testily.

            He shrugged, before saying decidedly: “Attachment.  Attachment's not fine.”

            “Bullshit.” For the first time she sounded angry.

            “What?”

            “You.  You and your arrogant, machismo bullshit.” She swivelled onto her side and propped her head into a palm. “This whole business thing is bullshit.  It's just an excuse.  Something to make you feel better because you're pathetic and alone.” Her frown deepened; now she was in free flow and anything he said would not stop her. “You need me 'cos you're lonely, and I need you 'cos I'm lonely.  Hell, I think you're sexy, and you have a crazy sense of style and you fuck real good, but I'd drop you in a minute if the man I loved didn't leave me mind-numbingly, soul-destroyingly lonely.” She halted, checking her temper as she always did because her temper never exceeded a certain degree of Fahrenheit and she was determined to keep it that way. “Yeah, I'd kick you to the kerb in a second if, just for once, Murray decided I actually existed.  But who takes me out to dinner, who buys me drinks and romances me, who takes the time to kiss me before we fuck?  You.”

            “Which is why you keep me around, huh?” he interjected bitterly.

            “Quid pro quo, LeBeau.  I take the time to make you feel good about yourself too, right?”

            “Yeah, you're just doin' wonders for my ego right about now,” he returned sardonically. “What's your point?”

            “My point is, I love Murray and I wouldn't throw the fool away, even for a smooth-talkin' Cajun Casanova such as yourself.”

            “Good for you,” he muttered caustically.  He suddenly decided it had been a mistake to talk about her.  Rita never got jealous but she could be incredibly preachy once you got her onto a certain subject that had she happened to have a bee in her bonnet about. 

            “Love,” she said suddenly, as if it should mean something to him.

            “Huh?”

            “You said 'made love to her'.  That's a bigger give-away than if you'd said 'I'm crazy about this girl and want to spend the rest of my life with her'.”

            He frowned and flicked his cigarette out the window, not saying anything, not liking what he was hearing one iota.  Moreover he disagreed with it wholeheartedly, but only because it made perfect sense.

            “So why don't you go find her?” she concluded when he made no reply.

  
            He leant against the windowsill and closed his eyes.  _Why not find her…?_   Because it was foolhardy, because it disobeyed all the rules, because he would end up getting bored and hurting her anyway.  Sometimes it was infuriating how simple things seemed to be to Rita.  To her, there really was only just loving and fucking and very little else in-between.  And for some reason, that single one-night stand with the green-eyed brunette had encompassed that grey area of something 'in-between'.  Still, why not find her?  All he wanted was another glimpse, another touch, another kiss, another night…

            He turned and moved across the room with sudden purpose, finding his clothes still strewn haphazardly across the floor and pulling them on.

            “Where're you going?” she asked; her voice was once again artfully nonchalant.

            “Got a job t'night,” he explained, slipping into his pants and zipping them up. “T'anks for de goods, chere.  Looks like I'll probably be needin' dem.”

            She watched him for a while, the words formulating in her head, fighting for articulation so that it took a while for her to finally spit out: “Remy… You're not mad at me, are you?”

            “Non.” He pulled his shirt back on and reached for his trench coat. “It's just dat you're always so right, p'tite, and sometimes a man can find dat a little intimidatin'.”

            She was half-lying, half-sitting on her back now, gazing at him from under her eyelashes; a sexy, husky chuckle bubbled up in her throat.

            “You'll be back,” she said indulgently. “Whether you find your pretty brunette or not.”

            “Don't you and I both know it,” he murmured, shrugging his coat over his shoulders.  He stood there and looked at her. “I guess I'll see you around then, Rita.”

            “Yeah, I'll see you around.” She waved a hand at him as if to say 'be off with you' and smiled. “If you ever get lonely again, you know where to find me.”

            “And if you ever get into de stunt business, don't forget t' leave me a forwardin' address,” he reminded her.  It was what he always reminded her, because he really meant it.

            “Hmph.  Next time you come round, I'll be here.” She sighed and rolled over, snuggling down under the covers as if it were her grave. “I'll always be here,” she added as a sober and somehow apt afterthought.

 -oOo-

            There were very few things that Remy LeBeau took the time to feel guilty about.  Guilt and shame were just about as dangerous as love and attachment in his line of business; it was in his best interests to be as dispassionate and amoral as he could be.  Many men who worked in the business gave vent to an inevitable guilt overload by turning hard and cold, or psychotic and insane.  Others went home and devoted their lives to their families, or their cars, or tending to their front yards and winning awards for them once a year.

            There were three things that kept Remy going whenever he had particular trouble keeping his guilt in check: thievery, gambling, and sex with pretty women.  While on the job he was nothing but calm, focused, impassive and utterly professional.  Off it he was charming, seductive, glib and passionate.  He was a strange dichotomy of personalities that may have surprised some and worried others.  It wasn't the way he was born, it was just the way he'd learnt to survive.

           

            At this particular moment in time he'd taken care to switch off the emotional, guilt-ridden part of his personality and turn on the cold, analytical one.

            He was lying flat on his stomach inside a cramped little air vent, staring down through the grille at two nameless and faceless security guards with one of Rita's knives poised very deliberately in his hand.  He was having a hard time concentrating on the job at hand because the conversation he'd had with Rita that evening was still very firmly on his mind.  Along with the green-eyed brunette he'd managed to seduce a whole six months before, and who he'd conveniently managed to ignore until nine a.m. that morning when he'd woken up and inexplicably decided he wanted to see her again.  He didn't particularly mind Rita being astute - he appreciated the fact that she was clever as well as easy on the eyes - but he did mind it when she was astute about things he was trying to keep to, or rather from, himself.

            Besides, Rogue had been a mistake.

            A very nice mistake, but one he could definitely do with less of.

            He decided to give up concentrating, trust his instincts, and just throw the goddamn knife.

            It buried itself in the back of the neck of the first guard, who toppled to the floor as if his legs had unaccountably given way.  The second security guard stared down at his fallen comrade in confusion.

            “What the f--”

            But of course, before he'd had the opportunity to finish what he was saying, he too had crumpled on the floor with a knife stuck unceremoniously in the back of his head.

            Remy unscrewed the grille and jumped out of the air vent with an expression of relief.

            The annoying thing was, he hadn't thought of her in years.  Well, not that much anyway.  He'd thought she was dead.  He didn’t know why he thought this, when she could just as easily have been incarcerated along with the other surviving X-Men in an internment camp.  It was easier to think she was dead; it didn't make him want to go and play the knight-in-shining-armour to her damsel-in-distress.  So it had been something of a shock to see her in that Sentinel parts factory.

            He'd been lying around, minding his own business in an air vent much like the one he'd just jumped from, when she'd walked by right below him.  She'd been dressed in one of those hideous yellow boiler suits all the Trask Technologies maintenance men wore, but he'd recognised her straight away.  The small, upturned nose, the sultry, slightly petulant mouth, the high cheekbones and the eyebrows that always seemed to come together in that defensive frown she'd always bestowed on him.  And the eyes.  He'd never forget those smoky green eyes, not ever.

            He picked his way past the guards, thinking that the night security really was pretty abysmal in this place.  He located the door control panel in a niche in a nearby wall and tapped a few buttons.  The doors the guards had been guarding gave a resounding _thunk_ and began to slide open.  Yup, security here was really very lax.  Lucky him.

            He hadn’t meant to follow her, but he had because he had been curious as to why she was blowing up factories in the first place.  And he hadn’t meant to take her back to his place, but he hadn’t been able to help himself because when she'd turned those smoky green eyes on him he'd felt the same kind of electricity he'd felt the first moment they'd laid eyes on each other all those years before, and it was the kind of electricity that didn't go with rational thought.

            By the time they'd arrived at the safe house, he'd known he was going to have sex with her.   Still, he really hadn't meant to take her virginity; it was just that when he'd found out she still had it he'd been too selfish and horny to stop, because she was a hundred times more beautiful and more heartbreaking than he'd ever remembered, and he wanted her so bad he knew it was going to kill him if he didn't have her.

            This was one of the very few things Remy felt guilty about.

            He felt guilty about it because even though she had been inexperienced, somehow she'd made it incredibly good for him and he'd made it incredibly good for her and consequently the whole thing had been so incredibly good that he knew that one of them had been investing too much into it, and he didn't think it had been him.

            He halted in the middle of the corridor, feeling stupid when he saw the rows of eyes staring at him from out of the bars running along either side of it.  He started walking again, the absent look still on his face.

            _Merde.  I t'ink it was de both of us._

            He'd made a mistake that morning.  He should've left as soon as he was ready. Instead he'd hung around, waiting for her to wake up for some reason he couldn't identify.  Maybe he'd wanted to gauge her reaction, see how well she'd take it.  But on the other hand, what did he care?  He'd never cared about what any other woman thought, come the morning after.

            Still, she'd taken it pretty well, he thought.  She hadn't wept, she hadn't wailed, she hadn't gone into self-denial and begged him to stay.  It didn't change the fact that he'd been stupid in waiting around for her to wake up, because she was as beautiful in the morning as she was by night, and he'd begun to think that he was the one being seduced.

            He got to the end of the corridor, found another control panel and absent-mindedly circumvented its security interface.

            Still, she'd taken it incredibly well, he thought.

            There was a clanking whooshing sound as forty metal-barred doors slid open behind him.  The rustling of uncertain feet as forty mutant prisoners grappled with the fact that they were free.  He knew how they felt.  Sometimes, it was easier to be in prison than to be free and to have to make decisions.  He himself - he didn't care where they chose to go now, nor how they chose to get out.  They were free now, he was no longer responsible for them - he had no intention of turning himself into their saviour as well as their rescuer.  Besides, there was only one of them he was interested in.

            The woman inside cell no. 21 was gaunter than he had ever remembered her in pleasanter days, not that any encounter with her previously had been pleasant.  The finely sculpted face was now pale and sallow; what colour had been left in her cheeks was leeched away by the impossibly black hair on her head.  Her countenance was haughty, imperious, yet there was a fear in her blue eyes that had never been there before.

            Remy leaned against the wall and stared at her.

            “Tessa, I presume?” he greeted her.  She made no effort to speak.  There was no love lost between them, and besides, he fancied she wasn't going to waste any brainpower speaking to him.  A thousand computations a second were probably going through her once-pretty head as she sat there and stared at him, trying to work out _why_ exactly he was here.

            “I got a surprise for you, chere,” he informed her with the air of a game-show host. “You're de lucky mutant who gets escorted out of dis joint by yours truly.” He unpicked the shackles from her wrists and added wryly: “Congratulations.”

 -oOo-

            It was the following evening and his head still hurt from where Tessa had promptly whacked him round the side of the skull with her boot heel once she'd finally figured out what he was up to.

            He'd always known the job with Tessa wasn't going to be an easy one - she _was_ a human-computer after all - but he hadn't been prepared for just how nimble she was when she was in full martial arts flow, even considering the fact that the internment camp hadn't given her the chance to practice her martial arts talents in years.  It'd taken all his skill just to dodge her moves, and in the end he'd ended up having to half kill her in order to get her to come along quietly.

            Needless to say, the boss had been far from happy.

            Remy didn't care.  He preferred it if he could rile his employer in some way - at least then it would stop him from feeling so guilty about what it was he actually did.

            He got out of bed, slipped on his boxers and reached for the packet of Tylenol still lying on the dresser, swallowing a couple of the pills whole.  In the shower the pretty busker was humming the same tune she'd been singing on the street the day before, and it reminded him of what he'd actually been meaning to do since he'd woken up that morning with a horrible headache and the need to get himself laid as fast as humanly possible.

            His cell phone was still in his trench coat pocket and he fished it out, dialling the same number he used when he wanted particular info on a particular person.  There were several rings before the call was answered by a cheap and cheerful male voice.

            “Yo, Remy.  Was expectin' your call last night.”

            “I had a delivery to make,” Remy replied vaguely, picking up the remote control and turning on the TV, making sure that the volume was unnecessarily loud. “Thanks for de info, by de way.”

            “So how did it go?  Didn't I tell you the security there was joke?”

            “Damn straight it was.  I dunno how dat Tessa didn't break outta dere all by her clever little self ages ago.” He nursed his aching head and winced painfully.

            “Hell, there ain't nobody can fathom that lady.  She probably liked it in there.  Probably gave her time and space and quiet to think.”

            Remy threw himself back on the bed and laughed. “Probably.”

            “So what's up?  You got a new job lined up?  Want me to lend yah my considerable brain?”

            “Well, dis is kind of a side project I'm workin' on right now,” Remy replied evasively. “In other words, low priority.  Just somethin' for you t' occupy your expansive mind wit' durin' your leisure time, homme.”

            “A side-project, hmm?  Nothin' involvin' blowin' up factories again, I hope.  'Cos man, I was expecting something better from you the last time you blew one up.”

            “Dat wasn't me.  And technically, no it doesn't have anythin' to do wit' blowin' up factories.”

            “So what?”

            Remy paused.  The shower was still on, and the busker was still singing that same song.  His heart gave an involuntary pang.

            “I need you t' find someone for me.”

            “It's what I do, man.  Who?”

            “A girl.  She's in de business.  Five foot eight, about twenty-four, green eyes, long hair - brunette wit' a white streak.  Slim, kinda sassy.”

            “Hmm.  She sounds cute.”

            “She is.”

            “Got a name?”

            “Nope.” He was reluctant even to give her codename, just in case it got her into trouble at some point in the future. “Just de stats.”

            “Well, it ain't that much to go by…”

            “I don't mind.  Like I say, dis a side project, and I ain't in any hurry t' see it done.  Just if you see her, let me know where she is.  Don't wanna know what she's doin', who she's workin' for or who she's hangin' wit'.  Just tell me where she is and how she's doin'.  Dat's all.”

            “Okay, I'll look into it.  Are you sure that's all you want to know?”

            “Very sure.  You can find out all you want about her if'n it floats your boat, but don’t tell me, okay?  Just call me if you see her.”

            “Dude, you just get weirder and weirder.  But since it's you, I'll do it.  Just don't expect a call any time soon with the specs you've given me.”

            “D'accord.” The shower stopped. “Look, I gotta go.  I'll call you back when de boss gives me somet'ing big.  See ya.”

            He ended the call before anymore could be said.

 

            As it turned out, the call he'd been hoping for came in June.

-oOo-

\- END OF PART TWO -


	8. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue is forced to use her body to further the Brotherhood's cause, and Mystique asks her to take on a dangerous new mission.

\- PART THREE -

_Winter 2009_

            His name was Art Rogers.

            He was of average height and average weight and average looks, a low level lab technician on the brand new Sentinel Mark 3 project, an average scientist of average intelligence, who was just about your usual average nobody.

            It was strange then, that Irene had had an unusually clear vision of him being the very designer who would launch a new and ultimately deadly version of Sentinel on the world.  The vision had been so clear, in fact, that it had led Mystique to take instant and decisive action.

            It had been a warm and balmy day in mid-June that Rogue had gatecrashed the house party being held at his plush new Long Island apartment with the express purpose of stealing his most valuable notes on the Mark 3 project – notes that would ultimately lead to a new discovery in Sentinel technology that would consequently never be discovered.

            There had been so many people there that Rogue had blended into the crowds fairly easily, although she had begun to think that maybe her choice of dress hadn't been appropriate, because a lot of men had ended up staring at her.  It was the first time she'd worn a dress since her days with the X-Men, and she had been ill at ease wearing the simple yet slightly flirty red ensemble.  Nevertheless, at the time she'd considered it one of the easiest assignments Mystique had ever handed to her.  She'd managed to slip into Art Rogers' study with complete ease and without attracting anyone's attention.

            Irene's vision had been very precise.  The notebook she was looking for was small, made of black, bound leather, and had the initials 'S:M3' emblazoned in gold pen over the front.  Rogue had only had misgivings when she'd stepped into the room and discovered that Art Rogers possessed a whole library of texts.  She'd spent fifteen minutes rifling through the first few bookshelves with no success, when she'd heard footsteps in the corridor outside.  She'd stayed very still.  Surely no one would go into a boring old study during a party?

            Unfortunately, the door had swung open before she had time to hide herself, and she'd been very much surprised to find the lank, unimposing frame of Art Rogers himself in the doorway, holding two jackets in his hand.

            She'd been cornered, caught red-handed.

            For some reason, she'd found herself saying: “Run out of cloakroom space, huh?”

            He'd stared at her from behind suspicious brown eyes and asked: “Who are you?”

            And suddenly the answer had appeared to her from out of nowhere and she'd known instinctively what to say.  She'd smiled coyly, seductively, trailed a hand down the front of her red dress and said: “A gift from the guys back at the lab.”

            In every way, it had been the right thing to say.  He'd looked over her once with growing enlightenment.  Then he'd licked his lips.

            “From the guys, huh?” he'd answered huskily, feigning casualness.

            “A house-warming present,” she'd agreed.

            She thought he'd at least want to take some time for the matter to sink in.  She couldn't have been more wrong.  Instead something had crossed his face, a dark smile she'd recognised instinctively; he'd thrown the coats aside and locked the door behind him, then looked back at her with something like expectancy in his eyes.  It had been a cue that needed no articulation.  She'd needed no other prompting.  Unwilling, but unable to find any other way out, she'd gone to him, pressed herself against him, undone the top button of his shirt and purred: “Congratulations,” in a tone she hadn't recognised.

            Surprisingly and somewhat disturbingly, it was an act she had found she was able to perform to perfection.  All the many men she'd absorbed told her exactly what they wanted from a woman, and when she'd raised her lips to kiss his, it had been perfunctory, fleeting.  He hadn't wanted her kisses.

            Instead he'd moved away from her, pushing all the clutter away from the desk to make room for her.  At that moment something inside her had balked, disgust, repulsion; but she'd followed his lead anyway, lain back on the cold hard desk whilst he slipped a long-fingered hand under her dress and ran it crudely over her thigh, undoing his shirt with the other.  It had taken an inhuman effort to keep the sultry expression on her face and not to push him away, but somehow she'd managed it.  It was only when he'd finally leaned in to place his mouth on hers that she'd pulled, pulled with all the strength that she possessed.

            Nothing had happened.

            She'd pulled so hard and nothing had happened.

           

            When it was finished he'd muttered his thanks, zipped up his pants and left her there in his study.  She'd sat up, trembling, her mind numb, her body aching in a new and horrible way she hadn’t been able to identify, that she hadn't wanted to.

            It had been so incredibly easy, so incredibly repugnant, to turn a man into a fool.

            Who had been the worse fool, she thought later?

            Him or her?

           

            When she'd got back and they'd sat in front of the incinerator watching the little black book burn, Forge had told her that the reason her absorption powers hadn't worked was probably because the government was now outfitting all of its employees with the latest in nano-technology - mutant power disrupters, nanomachines that were injected straight into the bloodstream and that nullified the powers of any mutant in a ten-metre radius.

            He'd heard rumours about it, but hadn't known it was already in use.

            There had been a faintly admiring tone to his voice as he'd said it.

            Rogue had sat there staring at the fire.  For some reason she'd found herself thinking of Remy, and if there had been one person she would have gone to now, it would have been him - though she didn't know why.  She didn't know him, didn't know where he was, didn't know if she'd ever meet him again, or if he gave a damn where she was.  But if she could have gone to him and buried her face in his chest and wept, somehow it would have made it all better.

            Perhaps.

            Mystique had looked at her with a long, appraising stare, as if in some indeterminable way Rogue had proved herself, not only to Mystique, but to the cause itself.

            The look had made Rogue physically sick.

           

            That night was the first she'd spend an hour in the shower, and it would not be the last.

 -oOo-

            Months had passed since then.

            Rogue stood in front of the mirror and twirled a lock of white hair absently round her right forefinger.  The dress was strapless, elegant, gracefully contrived of virginal white satin, hugging her breasts and hips like a second skin.  She looked beautiful, distinguished - she looked like a lady.  Maybe three years ago she would have bought it without a second thought, even if it had bared enough skin to turn her into a lethal weapon - she would have bought it even then, taken it home and dressed up in it in the privacy of her own room, stood in front of the mirror and twirled around like a little girl first discovering her femininity.

            She wouldn't buy it now.  She had no one to wear it for, not even herself - there were only the men whose lives so sordidly intersected with her own.  And she didn't want them to see her looking like this, looking like the woman she'd always hoped she would be.

            She sighed, but something possessed her to stand a little longer and admire herself.  From the cubicle next door, two young women were giggling, obviously finding their choice of garments amusing.  There was something so nostalgic about the sound that Rogue found herself smiling slightly to herself.  At least somewhere on the outside life was going on regardless; at least someone would still be laughing, even if it couldn't be her.  Regretfully she unzipped the dress, hung it back on its hanger and slipped into her own plain clothes, still wordlessly admiring it every now and then.  She hadn’t known she could be tempted by such frivolities anymore.

            When she was dressed she stepped outside the cubicle, taking the dress with her as if she didn't want to let it go.  She was being ridiculous and she knew it, but she couldn't help it.

            “Will you be taking that, ma'am?” asked the cheery salesgirl standing outside the changing rooms.

            Rogue smiled apologetically and handed the dress back with a truly remorseful look on her face.

            “Sorry, but Ah really don't think it's me,” she said.

            The women in the adjoining cubicle whispered something and giggled again as she left.

           

            Rogue walked out onto the sidewalk and pulled the collar of her jacket up to shield her face from the wind.  December was unfolding with brisk, Arctic winds that left people walking along the streets huddled into themselves. There was no time or strength left for talk.  It was truly unsociable weather.  Rogue didn't mind the weather so much; she minded the unsociability even less.  She walked back towards base with the heaviness of expression that one wears when one is wreathed in their own thoughts.  She was thinking that maybe she should have bought the dress after all - maybe it would've given her a reason to feel good about herself for a change.

            It had been almost six months to the day since the incident with Art Rogers.  In the aftermath of that event she'd gone through a crisis of sorts; a strange crisis of identity that even she had not been able to fully fathom.

            The event had left her with one vital question: - if even her absorption powers were now useless, what weapon did she have left?  And the answer had been staring her right in the face.  What had happened with Art Rogers had been an accident, a terrible, horrible accident, but it had been a fortuitous one nonetheless.  Fortuitous because it had uncovered the very last weapon left in her possession - her beauty, her looks, her mystery, her mystique.

            She had a hold over men and it was a weapon that had uses of its own.

            Nevertheless, it was one she took little joy from.

            Now that absorbing her targets was almost always impossible, she had found herself using this weapon more and more.  Sometimes flirting with her targets was enough; sometimes it was not and she would have to go further.  It was disgusting and disturbing but not terribly difficult.  It would have been more difficult if, that first time when she'd encountered Art Rogers, she had still been a virgin.  If that had been the case she would not have been able to do what she did.  But since it had not been the case, she was now able to create a certain detachment from her body and from the actual act itself - but it was only a limited form of detachment because she could never quite escape her body, just as she could never quite escape the psyches that still haunted her mind.

            It was a strange and unpleasant form of irony that where once she had loathed her ability to absorb souls, she liked this newfound power over men even less.

           

            She turned a corner, only to find that the next street was virtually empty.  People were tired of fighting the wind and were escaping into cafés or diners or department stores, or jumping into their cars and heading towards the safety of home.  The only other people on the sidewalk were two lovers, running in her direction, laughing, entwined together by a flimsy, fly-away scarf that was draped about both their shoulders in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

            She only just managed to dodge them as they raced past, chuckling conspiratorially between themselves in a fashion that she didn't think she would ever understand.

           

            She wondered about Remy often these days.  The first few months it had been relatively easy to forget him, but now that her circumstances were entirely different, she had found her mind drifting to him more and more often.  Somehow, throughout the hard slog of all the intervening years between the dissolution of the X-Men and this very moment, nothing had felt more real to her than the one night she'd spent in his company.  It had only been a momentary fling, a meaningless roll in the haystack; and yet compared to that one single event, everything else that had happened in the past three and a half years felt like somebody else's very bad nightmare.

            Perhaps she had managed the inevitable and had finally disassociated herself from her own life, her own mind, and her own inner workings.  It seemed an attractive plausibility except for the fact that she felt very much alive and very much conscious of everything going on around her, however vaguely and indistinctly.

            Not that any of this particularly mattered.  Not anymore.  She had known the morning after she'd slept with Remy that he had changed her into a creature she barely knew, and maybe that was why she had difficulty recognising herself.  Maybe that was why selling herself to other men wasn't terribly difficult.  Maybe if Remy had decided to take responsibility for what he'd done to her, maybe if he'd given her some acknowledgement of his part to play in her corruption she would have been bothered.  But he hadn't, and she wasn't.

            If she had been bothered, she didn't think she'd be alive anymore.

           

            She stopped abruptly in the doorway of a fancy patisserie and looked back over her shoulder.  There wasn't a soul in sight, apart from the couple who were now far off in the distance, still giggling.  She stood a moment, peering warily down the street before stirring herself and finally moving on.

            It wasn't the first time she'd got the feeling she was being followed.  It had happened once or twice before, on odd occasions over the past couple of months - but there had never been anyone there to prove that she was being tailed.  Still, as she wandered down the street a little further, she stopped, feigning interest in the electronics display in a nearby shop window, turned, backtracked for several yards, and then unexpectedly turned off into an alleyway.  Once there she began walking very quickly, making her way through the maze of interconnected paths, before exiting onto a totally different block altogether.  It was only then that she felt she might have shaken off any potential tracker, imaginary or otherwise.

            It hadn't escaped her notice either, that she was quite possibly becoming paranoid.

            _Maybe Ah am goin' mad after all…_

            She didn’t think it mattered which path she chose to walk from now on.  Whichever one she chose, all roads would inevitably lead back home.

  -oOo-

            When she arrived back at headquarters, the first person she encountered was Dom on his way to the kitchen.

            “There you are,” he remarked, the usual slow, indolent grin on his thickset face. “Raven's been having a fit wondering where you were.”

            “Ah was out,” she replied curtly, shrugging off her duster and hanging it over a nearby peg. “What, ain't Ah allowed to have some time to myself anymore?”

            “I ain't gotta problem with it,” Dom shrugged. “But you know what Mystique gets like about her 'darling daughter'.” His grin grew wider, showing an indomitable set of off-white teeth. “The mothering instinct in that woman is enough to scare off little children.  I guess I can kinda understand why you decided to run off with Xavier's Brady Bunch.”

            “Ah did not 'run off' with them,” Rogue retorted acidly, hands on hips. “Ah made a decision and Raven accepted it, even if she didn’t approve of it.  Sometimes Ah just think she needs to learn that Ah'm a grown woman and not a kid anymore,” she muttered as a belligerent afterthought.

            “Yeah, well, try telling her that to her face,” Dom remarked with a distasteful smirk. “I'm sure as hell not gonna.  Raven'd string me up from my ankles if I even said the slightest little thing about her precious widdle Roguey-Woguey.”

            “Gimme a break, Dom, it's not like Ah ask to be teacher's pet,” she grumbled, brushing past him and into the kitchen.

            “Well, could you at least suggest to her that St. John and I be given more interesting assignments?” he probed, following right behind her and flipping on the kettle switch while she poured herself a glass of water. “You always get all the exciting jobs.  It ain't fair.”

            “Ah just do what Ah'm asked t' do,” she answered stiffly, turning her back on him and lifting the glass to her lips.

            “Yeah, but only for _them_ , right?” he returned snidely. “For the _X-Men_.  Don’t deny it.  Ever since you came back last year saying you'd found out some of them were still alive, everyone's known it.  Even Raven knows it.  You stick with us 'cos you think one day we'll be strong enough to break _them_ free.  Isn't that right?”

            She stared at her face in the limpid pool of water, her mouth hard, her eyes pellucid and unblinking.

            “So what if Ah am?” she muttered darkly.

            The kettle had boiled, but he ignored it.

            “C'mon, Rogue, they're a dead-loss,” he reasoned, frustrated. “I think that fact was proved when old cueball was killed while he was preachin' love and peace to the frickin' military.  Statics and mutants _can't_ live in harmony, and his death proved that beyond doubt.  Dammit, get a clue Rogue!”

            She was bristling; the hairs on the back of her neck were actually standing on end.

            “You have no right to talk about Xavier like that,” she growled through gritted teeth, but he merely laughed dissonantly.

            “Face it, Rogue, Xavier fucked up.  The _X-Men_ fucked up.  That's why they're in concentration camps - if of course they are in camps at all, since you never did satisfactorily explain just _how_ you came by that information.  Is there any reason for that, Rogue?” She could feel him suddenly step up behind her, his face close to her ear as he added softly, menacingly: “Could it be you're still in contact with the X-Men?”

            She could hardly believe how close to the mark he'd truly come.  Before she could think she slammed the glass back onto the counter and rounded on him.

            “How _dare_ you insinuate -!”

            “Why?  Would it be so hard to believe?  _You_ survived, didn’t you?  So did Forge.  Well, why not someone else?”

            He was close, that expansive, sarcastic grin filling his face, and she glared at him, refusing to back down…

            “If that was true,” she hissed at him, bringing her face to within an inch of his, “Then Ah wouldn’t be here right now, talkin' to _you_.”

            She whipped away from him, picking up her glass and walking towards the window, but he wouldn’t back down.

            “C'mon, Rogue, I'm telling you all this for your own good!” he continued irritably from behind her. “If you think you can live in some fantasy world where the X-Men are gonna come and save the day once again, you can forget it!”

            “You don’t know anythin' that could happen!” she yelled back breathlessly. “Not even Irene does, otherwise we'd be free from this fucked up anti-mutant dystopia we're livin' in right now!”

            “Fuck the future!” he spat disdainfully. “What matters is the here and now!  And here and now, the X-Men are either dead or incarcerated without a hope of ever breaking free!  Xavier's ethos doesn’t mean jack-shit in this world and you know it!  The more you pretend it does, the crazier you're gonna get.  And believe me, Rogue, with what Mystique's got planned for you, you're gonna be needin' your head, you're gonna be needin' all the balls you've got!  Screw all this hippie bullshit you're still buying into!”

            She swung round, her eyes blazing green fire.

            “What d'you mean… _what's_ Mystique's got planned for me?!”

            He faltered, his mouth opening and closing, before he finally finished: “Look, I'm doing you a favour.  Forget the X-Men, forget Xavier and his crazy ideology and just think about the bigger picture for a second.  It's dog eat dog out there and it's either kill or _be_ killed.  Rogue, for God's sakes just--”

            “I think you've said quite enough, Dominic.”

            At the cool, deep and faintly irascible voice, the two turned to see none other than Raven standing in the doorway.  Dominic went pale, putting up his hands in self-defence.

            “Mystique, it isn't what you're thinking, I wasn’t going to tell her…”

            “Perhaps not,” Raven raised an eyebrow archly. “But sooner or later your idiocy would have made things very clear to her indeed.”

            Dominic went from pale to very red.  He dropped his hands.

            “Sorry,” he muttered churlishly. “But somebody needs to get it through to her that the X-Men are _dead_ , Mystique.  This ain't their world anymore.”

            “I'm sure Rogue is quite capable of making her own judgements,” Raven informed him coldly, stepping over the threshold and into the kitchen. “In the meantime, I want you and St. John to make preparations for the new assignment.  _I_ will give Rogue a briefing on the role she is to play, not you.  Now go.”

            For a moment, Dominic looked as if he was about to protest; but then he decided against it, and, passing a last glare in Rogue's direction, he left, shutting the kitchen door behind him.  When his footsteps had died away, Raven gave Rogue that cold, penetrating stare that was usually enough to unnerve the stoutest of hearts; but Rogue was by now well used to it, and returned the stare unflinchingly.

            “What did he mean?” she demanded hotly, her temper flaring as she met that frosty stare. “What have you got planned for me?”

            “Where were you this afternoon?” Raven asked instead.

            “It's none of your business!”

            “You are my daughter and I wish to protect you,” Raven persisted in the same flat, even tone. “Now tell me where you were.”

            She hated her, she _hated_ her…

            “Ah was in town, and Ah was shopping!” she spat fiercely.

            “I see you didn’t buy anything.”

            “Maybe Ah just wanted to see what Ah'd look like in a nice dress, even if Ah didn’t have anyone to wear it for,” she found herself shouting - she'd never planned to divulge anything so personal, but she was so angry she couldn’t help it from spilling out. “Why?  Is it a crime now or somethin'?”

            “Of course not.  But I ask merely because I don’t want you to be endangered.  You are precious to me, Rogue.  Do you not understand that?”

            Rogue pouted, her anger unwillingly tempered by Mystique's words.  There was nothing motherly or affectionate about Raven at all, not in her looks or her actions, but she had her own brand of love, twisted though it was, and despite it all, Rogue knew that in her own perverse fashion, Mystique _did_ love her.

            “Ah took all the necessary precautions,” she said in a lower voice. “You don’t need to worry about me.  Like you said, Ah'm a big girl now, Ah can make my own judgements.  Or don’t you trust me?”

            Raven's gaze was clear, unwavering.

            “I trust you, daughter,” she returned mildly. “But nevertheless, Avalanche is right.  You cling to Xavier's old teachings with a stubbornness that is quite unwarranted.  Don’t misunderstand me,” she added quickly when Rogue was about to protest, “I don’t blame you for this.  When you awoke from your coma, it was as if you'd awoken from one world into another, entirely alien one.  The world changed rapidly while you slept, and you never witnessed it.  It is natural that you should find difficulty in letting go.” She paused, walked to the table, drew up a chair and sat, indicating for Rogue to do the same.  After a moment's hesitation, Rogue relented and did so.

            “Nevertheless,” Mystique continued gravely, “the world _has_ changed, Rogue.  Drastically.  And one day, you will need to accept it fully.  In the meantime, I need to know that you still believe in our cause.  That you still believe in fighting for mutant freedom.”

            “You _know_ Ah do,” Rogue replied heatedly. “Do you think Ah could stand and watch the rest of mutantkind bein' treated like shit and do nothin'?  Do you think Ah could sit still when the X-Men could be waitin' out there for someone to--”

            “Forget about the X-Men for now,” Raven interjected calmly. “It is enough to know that, if they are indeed still alive, and if they were free now, they too would be fighting against oppression as the Brotherhood now does.  Agreed?”

            Rogue nodded.  That at least was certain, and yet somehow she felt that if the X-Men still existed, free and as a whole once more, things would still be _different_ … But she couldn’t pinpoint how.

            “Before equality there has to be freedom,” she murmured slowly, remembering something Xavier had once said. “If there is freedom to make a choice, all else can follow…”

            “Yes,” Mystique nodded. “Perhaps our ideals may differ, Rogue, in that you may believe in equality after freedom, and I may believe in mutant supremacy after freedom.  Whatever the case, the material point is this - freedom must come first.” She settled back in her chair and gazed at Rogue with clear, appraising eyes. “I'm glad that we can, at least, see eye to eye on this point, Rogue.  It means that I don’t have to worry so much about what I am going to ask you to do next.”

            “And what's that?” Rogue asked warily.  Recently Raven's demands had become risky, and she had an inkling they were going to be riskier yet…

            Raven, however, said nothing.  Instead she reached inside her pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping, passing it to Rogue with a confidential air.  It was a partially faded picture of a vaguely familiar man in military uniform, who was shaking hands with the President.  He was a middle-aged man, in his fifties, with a bold brow and noble, distinguished features.  His face was proud, almost lionine.

            Rogue studied him a moment, frowning.

            “General Kincaid…” she read the caption, recalling the name indistinctly, though she couldn’t remember where she'd first heard it.

            “Leader of an anti-mutant group called the Friends of Humanity,” Raven informed her briskly. “He is an extremely influential man, and even has the ear of the President.  He personally funds several anti-mutant agencies, but his brainchild - his baby, if you like - is the Friends of Humanity.  It was founded at first to advocate 'racial purity' in all public sectors - education, employment, health, even in government.  They started out merely as a small but vocal group, and over time it was _their_ campaigning that brought anti-mutant feeling to the fore; and an anti-mutant government into power.  In many ways, you could say that it was Kincaid's fault that the Xavier mansion was attacked on that day three years ago.”

            Rogue looked up sharply, an icy flame suddenly spurting to life in her chest; her throat had gone cold.

            “Kincaid is an eloquent speaker,” Raven continued matter-of-factly. “He managed to convince the President and his administration that the only way to deal with super-powered mutants was to use military force.  He is a great supporter of Bolivar Trask's work, and many believe he spearheaded Ahab's Hound program.  That man,” and she indicated to the news clipping again, “is the reason why you and I are the way we are today.”

            Rogue swallowed and looked back down at the paper, at the noble, smiling face, so open, so _fatherly_ somehow; someone to look up to, someone to believe in, someone to trust… And yet there was something about the lines on his face, the thinness of his mouth that suggested an expression of thinly veiled arrogance and contempt, as if his countenance could change from something benign to malignant in a second…

            She raised her eyes to Mystique's again, asked quietly: “And the job Dom was talkin' about…  The one you want me to do…?”

            Raven nodded; her eyes glinted in the sunlight.

            “Yes.  Kill him.”

  -oOo-

            A numbness seemed to take over Rogue.  For the next couple of weeks, she spent every waking moment preparing and training for this assignment, this fateful task that seemed to weigh heavily upon her shoulders from the moment it was given to her.

            She did not know why she agreed to it.  She could very well have refused it - Mystique, after all, was more qualified for assassinations than she was.  In fact, it was almost an unspoken rule that Raven take the assassination jobs - the kill was something she was a master in.  However, Rogue sensed that this was a test; that Raven was testing both her mettle and her commitment to the cause.  And Rogue had accepted it because in a way, in killing Kincaid she would be testing herself.  The ultimate question was, what would she be willing to sacrifice in order to free her kind from the bonds of slavery?  How far would she be willing to go?  She had already crossed one boundary, in seducing her targets for her own ends; but could she kill them as well?

            Could she kill in order to free those she loved most?

            Would killing Kincaid have any direct bearing on freeing the X-Men at all, and if so, was their freedom worth the death of another, however corrupt he may be?

           

            The days passed cold and dreary, windy and rainy; squalls blew over New York City with an almost unnatural force.  And then, the day before the assignment was to begin, the rain stopped, the winds dissipated, and all fell silent.  To Rogue, it gave the baleful impression of the calm before the storm.

            The mission was to take place under cover of night; Rogue spent the daytime preparing her equipment, or idly pottering round base, trying to find an inner sense of equilibrium she did not possess.  By evening, her stomach was churning listlessly; she dressed in her black bodysuit with the dignified reverence of the priest donning his vestments.  When this was done, she unclasped the butterfly pendant from about her neck and dropped it inside the inner breast pocket of her suit - over time it had become more than just a good luck charm.  To part with it was almost unthinkable, nothing short of sacrilegious to her.  If she was ever going to die, she wanted that pendant with her.  She was going to die with at least one part of the past with her, and even if she could never go back to that past, she was going to take it with her to the grave.

           

            At last, she was ready.

            When she got to the front door, Mystique was waiting.  She said no word, made no sign of encouragement, but silently handed Rogue the gun that was to kill Kincaid.  There was one full magazine in there, enough to kill him eight times over if such a thing were possible.

            She hoped she would only have to use one of those bullets.

            As she left, she looked back only once, and to her surprise she saw Irene hovering in the living room doorway, staring out at her with those blind eyes, giving the eerie sense of plumbing the depths of Rogue's soul.  Irene never saw her off before missions, she never said goodbye - this had to be important…

            A question was forming on Rogue's lips, unbidden…

            _Will Ah be comin' back?_

            But the question remained unspoken and thus forever unanswered.

            Irene said nothing, not even goodbye, and a split second later Rogue had turned, stepped out into the yawning blackness of the night to face yet another unturned page in her destiny.

  -oOo-

 


	9. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue struggles with Mystique's orders to take General Kincaid's life, and Gambit makes the decision for her.

            The Friends of Humanity Headquarters was a cold and imposing building of the most utilitarian design, utterly without beauty or charm, elegance or grandeur.  It was as if its architect had possessed not even an inkling of imagination, flair or style.  It was functional, purposeful, ugly, and little else.  In the darkness of night its silhouette loomed black and sinister, like a cardboard cut-out of hell.  That its residents purported to be the friends of anything at all seemed somehow ludicrous.

            Rogue was lying flat on her stomach atop the nearest two-storey building, a pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes, trained upon the back wall of the FoH headquarters.  A night security patrol was walking the perimeter in a set pattern, and from her position unseen several hundred yards away, she able to discern the gaps in that pattern.  The guards would patrol the width of the courtyard by walking away from one another, up each end of the perimeter fence, and backing up again, crossing one another's paths midway through the cycle.  At the point when they were both coming up to the perimeter fence, their backs would be to her, and she would have enough to time to make a break for the building's back maintenance entrance - if she was fast enough.

            With a grim smile, Rogue slipped the binoculars back inside her utility belt, and got to her feet.  Slowly, measuring each step, she walked backwards, scuffing her feet in the loose grit and gravel that had been scattered across the rooftop.  Then, when her heels touched the edge of the roof, she broke into a run.

            She sprinted the full length of the building, stepped up onto the ledge, and leapt off it as if it were a mere springboard.

            Under the cover of night, an observer would've seen nothing but an insubstantial black blob arch across the sky and over the FoH headquarters' perimeter fence.

            _Crunch_.

            One of the guards looked back momentarily in the direction of the far-away sound, but his flashlight fell on nothing, and, shrugging, he turned back to his predestined route towards the perimeter fence.

            Rogue, upon landing feet-first in the gravel courtyard, had already neatly dodged the circle of light and sprinted towards the building like a cat.

            She dove for the maintenance door, rolled, landed in a crouching position just in front of the thick, metallic door.  She took a quick glance over her shoulder.  In the distance, she could catch the faint glimmer of the guards' flashlight darting this way and that.  They had nearly reached the perimeter fence.

            She would have to work fast.

            She scrambled at her belt for her skeleton keys and produced them in a flash.  Quick yet careful, she worked at the lock and within a matter of seconds she felt it give.

            _Click._

            Storm would've been proud of her.  So would Gambit.

            She bit her lip, once again feeling the odd sense that she was being watched.  She jerked her head to the right, feeling eyes in the shadows, watching her… …  Nothing there.  She shook her head irritably.

            _What the fuck is the matter with me…?_

            Still in a crouching position, she eased the door open inch by painful inch, mindful not to make a sound.  It seemed an age before there was a gap big enough for her to slide through, but at last it was there; without rising to her feet she slipped through and inched the door closed just as the guards were turning back to face her.

            She was in.

            The maintenance area of the building was like a huge warehouse, piled with boxes, crates and pallets.  Everything was dull, drab, and dimly lit.  To her left was a side room, a cloakroom of sorts. Through the window in the door, she could see a worker's suit hanging neglected on a nearby peg, convenient cover that would allow her to move through the building without being questioned if anyone else was around.

            She pressed lightly on the handle; the door was unlocked.  She nipped inside quickly and pulled the pale blue overalls on top of her bodysuit.  Within two minutes she was striding through the building, now disguised as one of FoH's labouring staff.

            Not once did she falter in her step.  She'd already memorised the blueprints days in advance of this operation, and she knew exactly where she was going.  Getting there was never going to be a problem.  This was a cakewalk.  Infiltration was something she was good at; she wouldn’t even break a sweat.  What concerned her was what she had come here for in the first place, and with every corridor she cleared, it was rushing in on her, this end purpose she so dreaded.

            For the past fortnight, she'd been training for this with the ruthless efficiency and cold-blooded resolution of the assassin, and yet, despite every hour she'd channelled both physically and mentally into this one moment, the gun _still_ weighed against her thigh with a heaviness that was almost unbearable.

            She came to a flight of stairs, climbed it cautiously, and pressed herself against the wall when she got to the top; her hand absently caressed the hard and ponderous weight pressing at her thigh.  Even the feel of it made her stomach lurch in disgust, and she swallowed the sudden bitterness in her mouth - but it would not go away.  In the days when she'd originally been in the Brotherhood as a terrorist, she had never had to do anything like this; but in the intervening years between then and now, she had changed, she had fought on the side of the angels, she knew that there were consequences, that sometimes there was no turning back.

            And if she carried through with this, there _would_ be no turning back.

            _Clack_.

            At the soft, almost inaudible sound behind her, she snapped round, her heart pulsing rapidly, her body still sticking warily to the wall.  The stairs she had just climbed were only dimly lit by the security lights, but there was no one there, not even the suggestion of a footprint.

            _Ah'm definitely gettin' paranoid…_

            She turned her attention back to the landing above her; it was clear.  She left the stairway, coasted right, stepped lightly through a set of heavy double doors, and into a brightly lit, more expensively furnished corridor which was lined by several doors.  Nevertheless, she still kept to the wall as much as she could, for the sake of avoiding hidden cameras, if possible - the less seen of her, the better.  There, at the end of the corridor, was her goal.  Her gut churned uncomfortably.  Again she pressed a palm against the outline of the gun - of course it was still there, she was being irrational, wishing that it would somehow disappear of its own accord.

            The door, her target, was an old-fashioned one, hewn of highly burnished mahogany; light was streaming out from the gap underneath.  Her mouth was thick, dry, and she swallowed, tasting bile.  So he was there, just as she had known he would be.  And yet how she had hoped there would have been something, _anything_ to take him away…

            She shook her head violently.

            Dangerous, subversive thoughts!  She was an automaton, a puppet; she did as she was told, she analysed facts and figures, not emotions; she calculated, she didn’t think.

            She was here to do a job; that was all.

            This was business, it wasn’t anything personal.

            She began to walk again, towards the door, this time more purposefully, unzipping the worker's suit as she went, pulling out her arms from the sleeves, slipping it over her shoulders, her hips, her thighs, her legs… stepping out of it, leaving it in a haphazard heap on the floor behind her… Her right hand reached for the gun in its holster, pulled it out, cocked the hammer back.

            She pressed herself against the door, listened for any sign of a presence.  Nothing.  Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip - gun still clutched tight, she reached for the doorknob with her free hand, touched it gently.  Hesitancy.  Her teeth dug into her lip, pain to take away the uncertainty of the moment… She swivelled the handle.

            The door gave easily, so easily, it was nothing, so insignificant; and yet it was an action that sealed her fate, that would seal the fates of many…

            Light beyond the door, and she edged into the room - an office, a brightly-lit and beautifully furnished office, every wall lined with books, books old and new.  She could smell the books, smell the pages, smell the flavour of old, worn leather and glue.  She remembered the scent well from another office she'd often visited in the past.  Her gut churned again. With a slight, sideways movement, she closed the door with her back.

            She raised the gun.

            “Kincaid,” she said.

            He was standing at a desk opposite her, his back to her.  His stance was calm, unruffled.  He turned only slowly.  His was the face of a man in his prime - though in his late fifties, and though ravaged by lines and pockmarks, his features were solid, distinguished, his mouth powerful.  In every way he was built like the lion - it was the strong, stocky build that nevertheless suggested a grace of movement, the broad chest, the proud bearing.  He was not a man to be gainsaid.  This she knew instinctively when she saw him first glance calmly at her face, then at the gun in her hand, then into her eyes.

            “Ah,” was all he said.

            He showed no surprise, no consternation at her impromptu appearance, and even less at the gun in her hand, the gun that was now shaking in her grasp.  She should've shot him when he wasn’t facing her.  She should have shot him in the back, before he turned round… She couldn’t shoot a man with a face, however wicked, however cruel he was.  She couldn’t do it…

            He looked at the gun again, saw it shake.

            “Have you come to kill me, mutant?” he asked of her mildly; his voice was deep and sonorous, the voice of a preacher-man. “For you _are_ a mutant, aren't you.  Who but a mutant would be sent to kill me?” He smiled, a fatherly smile, yet one that was also faintly and inexplicably menacing. “I hate to disappoint you, child, but you are not the first to have pointed a gun at me.”

            She said nothing, and to her surprise he stepped out from behind the desk and began to walk slowly towards her.

            “If I am not mistaken,” he spoke as he advanced, “and if that is the job you have been sent to do, then shoot me now.  I am quite unarmed, as you can see.  An easy target.  You have complete control over me.”

            No.  It was the other way round, and she knew it.  She couldn’t shoot him.  She couldn’t do it.  Despite all the training Mystique had given her, despite all the preparation for this moment, there was the teaching of another that had supplanted all the careful tutoring Mystique had given her.  It was the teaching of a man who had said that one does not kill his enemy, that one does not sacrifice his soul in the search for equality and freedom…

            And Kincaid knew that.  He could see it in her eyes.

            He was right in front of her now, and she could feel the heaviness of his body as it pressed against the barrel of the gun, taunting her, daring her to pull the trigger…

            She could barely breathe, her heart was thundering in her chest, her hand was wavering…

            Kincaid's eyes darkened.

            “Why do you hesitate?” he asked her, his voice rumbling like storm clouds. “Here - I am making this easy for you.  You have mettle, girl, or you would not have come here; certainly you would not have gotten this far.  Press that trigger, end the so-called miseries of your kind.  _Do it_.”

            Her finger contracted against the trigger, slackened.  She was panting, laboured, heavy - she couldn't do it.  Whatever she was, she was no killer, she was no murderer.  There was something she still possessed, something that Raven could never take away from her.

            Conscience.

            The darkness fell out of Kincaid's eyes.  Now there was something almost kindly on his face as he perused her, a warmth, an understanding… Slowly he raised his right hand, touched the gun, removed it gently from her grasp.  She let him do so, opening her palm without resistance; it was almost a relief to feel the heavy weight of it relinquished.  And yet Kincaid kept his eyes on hers the entire time.  With a clipped, methodical movement, he tossed the gun aside, and it clattered noisily to the floor at their feet.

            Then he did a very odd thing.  He offered her his hand.  Afterwards, she would never know why she took it, nor why she trusted him.  Perhaps something in him reminded her of Xavier, perhaps it was that she thought he could offer her a substitute for the empty, hollow hole that was her existence.  It made no rational sense, but in the years after, she came to think that there was a part of him that would have taken her in and sheltered her, if they had not been such wholly different beings.

            As it was, she let him take her hand, and when she did he pulled her close to him and looked her in the eye.  He looked at her a long time, reading her face as if he would a book.  Then, he seemed to decide something in his mind; she could pinpoint the exact moment when he decided this thing.

            His lips curled.

            “Filthy mutant.”

            He wrenched her wrist, flung her with an easy flick of the hand, sending her skimming sideways and into a bookshelf that tottered precariously at the impact; books rained around her, landing at her feet.  She wobbled, shocked, breathless.  Wordlessly Kincaid turned away from her, picked up the gun and faced her again.  He had the barrel pointed right at her heart.

            “So, you thought to kill me,” he stated smoothly, disdainfully. “And yet you find you haven't the nerve.  Your face, so fresh, so young…  You're green, aren't you?  You've never done this before.  _Killed_.” He narrowed his eyes, considering her, and she did not dare to move, didn’t even dare to breathe though her lungs were burning with a painful intensity, fighting against her chest for air… He grimaced. “I am sorry to say, my dear, that I have killed before, and that dispatching you would be of little consequence to me.”

            She dared to open her mouth, dared to gasp for breath, dared to scan the room quickly and find an escape route, a weapon, _anything_ …   Nothing…

            “Maybe Ishould kill you now,” he sneered, suddenly gleeful, menacing. “Would you like that?  Something in your eyes tells me you would.  You're exactly like all the other trumped up mutant militants who come here, trying to kill me, trying to earn their glory.  You all have that look in your eyes, the look that says you're ready to die, that you are willing to face death for your 'cause'.  But you know nothing!” he spat, his eyes flashing with contempt. “There are some things we can rob from you just as easily as your worthless lives.  Self-respect, pride, humanity.” He smiled, expansive and mirthless, baring white, even teeth. “They say there are some things worse than death, and let me tell you, mutant -- there are.”

            She said nothing.  Her arm and her temples were aching dully, but her mind, her senses were fully alert.  She dared not speak; she dared not move.  Her eyes were on his, challenging, questioning, _willing_ him to come closer…

            He cocked an eyebrow at her; something about her surprised him.

            “And yet you do not speak,” he mused in a more curious tone of voice. “How very interesting.  Usually your kind has a lot to say for itself - hyperbole and useless tripe for the most part, but still…” He moved the gun slightly, as if to caress her. “Why do you not speak, mutant?  What is it that you are really here for?”

            She shifted a little, feigning nervousness, indecision; she slipped a hand quietly behind her back, her fingers closing around something round and hard and solid…

_A paperweight…_

            General Kincaid lowered the gun a little, though it was still undeniably trained upon her heart.

            “Do you feel a little frightened now, mutant?  Have I unnerved you?” He chuckled softly, sinister. “And yet, when I first looked into your eyes I had thought you so brave… braver even than the others.  But you're just the same, aren't you.  Deep down, you filthy mutant rats - you're all the same.”

            She watched him, watched the disgust flood his face again, and her fingers closed about the paperweight, and she was ready to do it, she was ready this time…

            “Ah'm not afraid,” she spoke, trying to sound confident, self-assured, and yet still her voice wavered. “You said there were worse things than death… Ah know.  Ah've seen them, experienced them… There isn't a thing you can do t' me that'd break me.”

            “Ah.” The smile was back again, this time broad and ugly. “But do you really think so?  Do you think you are brave enough to face tortures never imagined or dreamed of, when you haven't the stomach to kill _me_?”

            _Ah.  So that's what he thought…_

            “There are different kinds of bravery,” she half-muttered.  Her fingers were now clutching the paperweight so tightly the joints were prickling and her knuckles ached. “Bravery in the face of torture is entirely different to the bravery it takes t' kill a man.”

            His smile had faded, his eyes were hooded with the faintly ominous expression of a cobra.

            “And one, I assume, is noble, whilst the other is not?” he questioned silkily.

            Involuntarily she thought of Xavier; she thought of her foster-brother, Kurt.  She shook her head.

            “For mutants, there is no dignity in death,” she murmured.  That at least was true.

            General Kincaid was regarding her now in oblique appraisal, with the look of a snake considering its prey, calm, calculating, clinical.

            “Yes,” he said at last. “That is true.” His tone held a dreadful finality, as if someone had finally pointed out something that had been self-evident to him from the very moment of its inception.  The gun was still firmly in his hand, but there was no longer any of the previous murderous intent in his eyes. “What is your name?” he asked her at last.

            “Ah don't have a name,” she answered quietly.  Her fingers twitched on the paperweight.

            A trace of a smile pricked his lips.

            “No, I don't suppose you would, would you.” He caressed the trigger thoughtfully. “I have never supposed mutants to have any need for names either.  They have a curious penchant for taking appellations, crude epithets that merely reflect the mutant ability that defines them. _Cyclops, Storm, Shadowcat._ ” His lip curled once more with disdain. “All these names have a common thread - they are names that glorify the destructive power of the bearer, their abnormality, or their inherent ugliness.  Better to have no name, than to have _that_.  But you,” and he regarded her again with that oddly appraising look, “you _look_ human.  You could easily pass for one of us.  There is nothing strange in your looks, no outward or obvious manifestation of your deformity.” He took a step towards her, paused and considered something, then asked: “And what _is_ your power, mutant?”

            He had walked towards her; that was good.  She could bring herself to focus only on that small sliver of hope.

            “Ah'm a vampire,” she answered with more honesty than she'd ever expressed to anyone, even herself. “Ah absorb the memories and psyches of anyone Ah touch.”

            He took another step; there was a look of enlightenment, of wonder on the harsh contours of his face.

            “Aaaaah,” he murmured. “Now I see why you remain nameless… Because you are not _one_ , but _many_.  Because, in essence, you possess _no_ identity.” He grinned, malevolent. “How intriguing.  It is a pity, then, that your powers can have no effect on me.”

            She gritted her teeth; her hand was throbbing painfully now, her head was swimming and his words had angered her.

            “A pity? It ain't no pity,” she breathed, hardly able to contain the emotion streaming into her voice. “You think Ah _like_ mah power?  You think Ah'd like to absorb _you_?  You think Ah'd want _you_ screamin' in mah head along with all the other ghosts that haunt me?”

            He was very near her now, the gun still poised somewhere close to her heart; his eyes glittered at her words.

            “And now I see why you show no pride, why you come here and fight your cause without zeal, without passion, unlike all the other filth who've tried to kill me before this moment.  Because you _hate_ yourself, just as much as the humans hate you.  Because you understand their contempt of you, their disgust of you - it is the selfsame disgust and contempt you feel for yourself.” There was an odd expression of triumph on his face. “Yes, I see… How fascinating.  In a way, I find I understand you, mutant.”

            He was standing mere inches away from her now, and now that he was this near she was shaking, unable to go through with it, unable to fight him and he knew it…

            “Ah don't want t' be understood by you,” she seethed, unable to hide the revulsion in her voice, but he merely sneered at her, his eyes perusing her face as if he were now reading an open book.

            “Yes, I see it now - I can see in your eyes that courage of a different kind has been tempered, the courage of the faceless, of the soulless…” He shifted the gun, and this time she felt it press against her breastbone, digging through the material of her bodysuit and into her flesh… already she could feel the bullet in her heart… “Maybe I should do you a service after all, mutant,” he murmured intimately, as if he were offering her the chance of a lifetime, a one-off favour never to be repeated. “Maybe I should just kill you now.  For you know the truth already - that your death will be completely and utterly worthless; meaningless - and I do believe it is a waste of time to push an already well-established point.”

            She heard him cock the gun; it seemed a painfully long moment, and a part of her wanted it… But then she thought of Xavier, the only person she'd ever trusted, the only teacher that had ever taught her anything worth learning… …

            And suddenly she was moving, her hand was swinging with all the force left in her throbbing, aching hand and she was smashing the paperweight into the side of his skull… …

            _Crack_.

            All her rage, all her revulsion, all the sickness inside her expressed itself in that one gruesome sound and as she watched Kincaid fall there was nothing left inside her but horror, a deep and sickening horror, a yawning, gaping hole that encompassed her as he crumpled to the floor with a sepulchral _thud_.

            She dropped the paperweight, unable to work her muscles anymore; she was hyperventilating, she couldn’t breathe, she was going to be sick.  She fell to her knees, whimpering, clawing her way across the general's body, grabbing onto his coat, rolling him over.

            Breathing.

            He was still breathing.

            She let go of him, half relieved and half aghast.  He wasn't dead.  He was alive.  She hadn't killed him.  She'd still kept that one last piece of her humanity, the one last glimmer of hope stored and sealed tight inside her.  She was still human.

            She was still human.

            _Thank you, thank you, thank you, God…_

            “You have t' kill him, chere.”

            The voice was cool, calm, collected, utter lunacy in the face of all that had just happened.  Unable to stand, she swivelled on her knees, and there he was, standing behind her - whether demon or angel she didn't know, except that he was there, looking down on her when she'd thought he was lost and never to be found again… …

            The eyes that had been watching her, the sounds… She _had_ been followed… …

            “Remy?” she whispered.

            He said nothing, made no greeting, but walked up beside Kincaid's prone body, bent down, and picked up the gun lying on the floor next to him.

            “You have to kill him,” he told her matter-of-factly. “It's what you came here to do, isn't it?  Besides, he knows too much about you now.  Lettin' him live would be dangerous.” He held a hand out to her. “Come on now,” he said, softly, encouragingly.

            She stared at his outstretched hand a long moment, still trembling, unable to understand how he was here and _why_ he was here, but his voice, his logic was so reasonable, so seductive… And she _knew_ he was right, undeniably, unequivocally _right…_ Wordless, she reached out, took his hand.  He pulled her up, handed her the gun.

            She took it.

            She closed her eyes, inhaled, calm and even, slowly regulating her breathing.  Then she opened her eyes again and aimed the gun; it wobbled only very slightly when she lined it up against Kincaid's already bruised and bloody forehead.  She stared at him, the coarse, lined and insidious face, the mouth locked in a perpetual sneer of contempt, even now, even here, a mouth that had said so many things to her, so many monstrous home-truths, and suddenly it hit her - he was the only one who understood her.  The only one who knew who she was and where she was coming from.

            She lowered the gun.

            “Ah can't do it,” she murmured, not looking at Remy still standing beside her.

            “Rogue -”

            “Ah can't do it!” she bellowed above him, before he could say anything she didn't want to hear.  Wordlessly she slammed the gun into his chest, making him take it back.

            “Rogue, dis is crazy -”

            “Didn't you listen t' a word he said t' me?!” she screamed at him, finally turning to face him, his beautiful, quiet face, his dark, watchful eyes. “'Cos you _were_ listenin', _weren't_ you?!” He stared at her blankly and she shouted at him, infuriated all the more by his silence. “He called me nameless, faceless, soulless!  He said Ah have no identity!  D'you think if Ah kill him, that'll make me any better?!  D'you think it'd give me back mah name?!”

            It was the first time she'd ever asked these questions of anybody, and this time she wanted an answer; the look of challenge was in her eyes, but his own countenance was hard, cold, emotionless.

            “You're a fool, Rogue,” he replied quietly. “Dis ain't about you, it ain't about stayin' sane and it ain't about honour.  It's about survival.  You let him live, he'll come back and kill you.  I'm tellin' you girl, killin' him now would be de lesser of two evils.”

            She was hyperventilating again, her chest heaving maniacally, grief and rage spilling out of her in a volcano of pure white heat so intense that black spots were dancing before her eyes… She hated him.  She _hated_ him and his fucked up logic.  Without thinking she slammed her palms into his chest and tried to shove him away from her, but it wasn't even enough to make him step back.

            “You don't get it, do you?!” she shrieked at him, her voice deafening her own ears. “An evil is still an evil - d'you think Ah still want any part of it?!” She shoved him again, but he didn't move, just watched her. “D'yah ever think that maybe my soul is the only thing Ah've got left?!” Shove. “D'yah think if Ah killed him, Ah'd still get t' keep it?!” Shove. “D'yah think it'd absolve all these sins Ah carry on my back, these horrible, wretched, _disgustin'_ sins?!” She pushed him again, with all her might, but he still didn't move and she felt moisture welling in her eyes. “Ah won't do it, Remy, Ah won't ever do it, not for you, not for anyone, not ever, Ah'd rather be killed, Ah'd rather die!”

            She slammed her hands into his chest again, but as she did so something went out of her, and she choked on a dry, broken sob, clutching the lapels of his trench coat with white fingers, utterly exhausted, utterly drained.  He was motionless, making no move to comfort her, his hands slack by his side, the gun still hanging limply in his right hand.  She didn’t want his comfort anyway.  She stared at the ground between them, unable even to cry anymore.

            “Ah can't do it,” she finally said quietly, wearily. “Ah _won't_ do it.  It's just one of those things, Remy.  It's one sin Ah can't add t' the list of many.  Ah think if Ah did do it… Ah wouldn't be me anymore.  Ah wouldn't be Rogue.  Ah'd be dead, Remy.  Ah'd be dead.”

            There was a long silence, frigid, still, thick with cold, and she stared at the ground, still holding onto him, knowing he wouldn't understand, that he could never understand, and that however long she stood there and held onto him and _willed_ him to understand, he wouldn’t.

            Presently, he stirred, turning back towards Kincaid's inert body lying on the floor, and she let go of him, looked up into his face.  He was looking down at the general, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set with sudden determination.  It was only then that she saw a side of him she'd never seen before, a side that sent chills down her spine and a thrill coursing through her body, one that settled right in the core of her and stayed there.

            He moved forward, he raised the gun, he aimed it at Kincaid.

            She stepped after him, one simple step as she suddenly realised the awful thing he was going to do.

            “Remy --” she breathed, wanting to reach out for him, wanting to draw him back, knowing it was too late.

            Wordlessly, he pulled the trigger.

-oOo-


	10. Conquered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue finds herself falling deeper in love with Gambit, despite her misgivings.

                   She was still shaking half an hour later, too shocked to speak.

                   He'd pulled the trigger, and there had been no sound, no movement, no blood, no feeling.  Afterwards he'd lowered the gun and stared.  There had still been that look in his eyes, the look that alternately repulsed and excited her - it was the look of someone and something she could never be, and she envied him for it, she hated him for it.

                   She hadn't spoken to him since they'd left the building, since they'd walked away from Kincaid's body and out into the open.

                   It hadn’t felt any different on the outside.  It was the same moon, the same stars, the same sky that still hemmed her in, wherever she was, wherever she went.  Kincaid would always still be dead.  They had walked on, unhurried, yet with a certain briskness to their steps; he'd placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her and silencing her - apart from that, their direction had been aimless.  Presently Remy had stopped at a nearby Starbucks and bought her a coffee.  Then he'd led her into Central Park and installed her on a bench.

                   She was still sitting there fifteen minutes later, her elbows propped on her knees, clutching the lukewarm cup of coffee and rocking gently, trying to soften her screaming nerves.  He sat next to her, nonchalant, smoking a cigarette or two and casually taking in the night-time scenery while he waited for her to come to her senses.  At the present time she didn't think she would ever come back to her senses, not ever again.

                   Because something terrible had happened back there in Kincaid's office, and she wasn't even sure what it was.  It was something so awful, so disturbing that she couldn't bring herself to wilfully comprehend it.  Kincaid had done something to her more terrible than any of the men that she'd given herself to; Remy, too, had done something to Kincaid that had affected her more horribly than she knew.  It was gnawing at her like some parasite, feeding on something somewhere inside her and she didn't know what or where that something was.  It was a sensation of dread that she could not pinpoint.  She felt alone, more utterly alone than she'd ever felt in her life.

                   Slowly she stopped rocking and placed the cup on the ground beside her; she dropped her head into her quivering hands, closed her eyes, wiped her face.

                   “You killed him,” she murmured into her palms - it was more to herself than to him, as if in saying it she could clarify the reality of it.  She lifted her head, stared at her hands and whispered: “Ah can't believe you killed him.”

                   Remy looked at her.  She could feel him looking at her; his gaze always sent her spine tingling, her skin crawling with perverse delight.  Even knowing what she knew about him now, it was no different.

                   She had expected him to say something, make some excuse or even some crude and glib reply, but he didn’t.  Perhaps he had no excuses.  Instead he took a drag of his cigarette and looked away again.  A part of her admired his indifference; another part of her resented him for it.

                   She continued to stare at her hands and asked quietly: “How many times have you done it before?”

                   She heard him suck on his cigarette - the breeze blew wisps of smoke her way, clouding the air with something fleeting, ephemeral.  She didn't know whether she wanted to hear his answer.

                   “I don't know,” he replied at last, looking back down the path, away from her. “I don't count anymore.  Besides,” he flicked the cigarette calmly to the ground, stubbed it out with his boot heel, “who wants to count anyway?”

                   She balled her fingers into fists, opened them again.  She understood a little of his logic.  It didn't mean she didn't resent him any less for it.

                   “Remy,” she spoke at last.

                   “Hmm?”

                   She kept her eyes on her hands.  She barely knew how to get the words out.

                   “Ah don't… _ever_ … want you to do _anythin'_ like that for me… ever again.”

                   There was a silence.  He said nothing, didn't even move.  When he made no reply she sat up and stared at him.  He was staring ahead, into the dimness, into a tree-lined horizon, his mouth and his gaze closed to her, revealing nothing.

                   “Remy?” she began again, trying to implore him with her eyes.  He continued to stare ahead, his Adam's apple rising, falling.

                   “Kincaid would've killed you,” he said quietly, gruffly, his jaw taut. “You think dat bastard would've cared if you let him live?  To him you were a mutant and you deserved t' die regardless.  He was better off dead.  I just did what you were too chicken shit t' do.”

                   “Ah don't care!” she cried - she could feel her blood beginning to boil again. “It wasn't what Ah wanted!  You had no right t' follow me, t' come bargin' in on _my_ mission… What makes you even think Ah wanted your help anyway?!”

                   He continued to stare straight ahead of him, his smile cold, mirthless.

                   “Maybe I was jus' doin' my job, even if you weren't,” he stated frostily.

                   “Fuck you, fuck the job!” she screeched. “There are some things that the job can't even touch, like this!” She smacked her fist against her heart, hard, angry at him, truly angry at him because she'd waited for him for so long, and now that he was here beside her he was killing her, killing her heart… “But do you even know what it feels like, Remy?!  Do you even know what it feels like to have a heart inside your breast, _do you_?!”

                   His jaw was twitching; he was losing his temper and she wanted him to, she wanted him to feel the rage inside _her_ …

                   “For fuck's sake, Rogue -”

                   “ _No_!  You had no right!  It was wrong and Ah didn't want it, Ah never wanted you t' do it for me…!”

                   He turned then, his eyes burning red fire.

                   “Who says it was for _you_?!” he yelled, but she wasn't going to back down, this was what she needed, what she wanted to hear from him…

                   “You followed me!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “You were followin' me, and watchin' me, and you stepped in when you thought Ah was goin' to fuck up… You thought Ah'd be grateful, that Ah'd show my 'appreciation' for yah like the fuckin' stupid whore Ah was last time --”

                   She stopped mid-sentence, swinging away from him as the words hit too close to home; a lump suddenly lodged itself in her throat, making her mouth crumple, making her eyes burn… It took a supernatural effort to force back the well of tears.

                   Silence settled, raw, uncertain; she heard him inhale a deep breath and the next moment his hand was on her elbow, his voice low, thick…

                   “Rogue --” he said, but she shrugged his hand away, furious that he had the nerve to reach out for her.

                   “Don't touch me,” she muttered forcefully, and he hung back a moment before saying firmly: “I wasn't followin' you.”

                   “Yes, you were.”

                   “Non, I wasn't.  Even if you wasn't there at all, I would've killed Kincaid anyway.”

                   Silence fell again.  Could it be, she thought, that he'd been there to kill Kincaid all along, that he was on an assignment of his own…?  No, it couldn't be true.  It was too much of a coincidence.

                   “Ah don't believe you,” she finally said.

                   “Fine.” He was beginning to lose patience again, she could feel it. “Don’t.  But I did you a favour back there and you know it.  You got your own moral code, Rogue, and dat's fine wit' me.  Hell, maybe it's even noble and commendable, what de fuck do I know?  I ain’t gonna argue about it.  As far as I'm concerned, if you let dat guy live, he would've hunted you down and strung you up for sure.  And if you weren't gonna get rid of de bastard, I was gonna do it for you.  Because I'd rather see him dead than you, a million times over.” He stood up, dug his hands into his pockets and stared out over the horizon again, his gaze suddenly pensive. “Look, Rogue… As far as you and I go, I don't want a t'ing from you dat you ain't willin' t' give me.  You're wrong if you t'ink I'd off one worthless piece of shit jus' t' get a trick out of you.  I don't play games like dat, it ain't my style.”

                   She shot a look at him, then glared back at the ground.  She was shivering again, from so many things - the cold, his words, the entire night's events.  She didn't know what to say.  So she waited for him to continue.

                   “I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't attracted t' you,” he began again, slowly, seriously. “You and I both know dat.  But de cold hard truth is dat dis is a big wide world, and there are a lot of girls out there I could be attracted to, and I could walk away from you right now and not regret it.  You ain't a whore, and there ain't a t'ing dat binds us t'gether, not in any way.  Not even what happened t'night.  Tradin' a life for your body - dat's a game I'd never play. We owe each other not'ing.”

                   He halted, and she closed her eyes momentarily, weak, tired, wounded.  He was right.  Killing Kincaid didn't bind her to him, he hadn't meant it in that way; and yet he had bound her to him in a different way.  She _was_ a whore, and somehow, in taking her virginity he had _made_ her into one.  The logic was twisted, perverse, and yet somehow it existed and she couldn't explain why it should be so.  It was imperative to her that she make him understand that, even if he would take no responsibility for it - and yet how could she tell him, when to tell him of that bond would break the first unspoken rule between them - that what they had shared was nothing more than just sex?

                   She stood, trying to hide the shudders now consuming her body once more, and faced him.  He was standing, looking at her, waiting, watchful as ever, like a devil, like her angel…

                   “Ah didn't want you t' do it,” she found the words tumbling out quickly, unable to help herself. “Ah didn't want yah t' do it because Ah wanted yah t' have a heart, and Ah didn't want t' see it tainted.  It's stupid, it's crazy, and Ah'm sorry, Ah just…” She trailed off, looking away and swallowing, her cheeks burning… “Ah just don't want t' believe that the man Ah was with last year didn't have a heart when he told me he wouldn’t hurt me,” she finished in a rush.

                   There, she'd said it, she'd said as much as she dared, and yet it was so wholly inadequate that she didn't think he'd even halfway understand…

                   He half-smiled, a grim, self-deprecating smile; his gaze returning to that point far off on the horizon as the breeze caught his hair, his coat, sending the tails flapping in the wind, making her shiver even harder.

                   “Then I guess I don't have a heart, chere,” he murmured softly, and she thought she heard regret in his voice, but she wasn't quite sure. He shrugged, looked back at her. “I'm sorry.”

                   He turned then, began walking back down the path that they had come from; but as she watched him leave, suddenly she could feel the butterfly pendant pressing against her breast, still ensconced inside the inner pocket where she had left it for good luck, just as she always brought it along for good luck.

                   And a luck of sorts had come along, in him.

 

 

 

                   It didn't matter how he had come, or what he had come to do - that he had come at all was more than she could have ever wished for.

                   She didn’t know whether it was weakness or strength that suddenly made her run after him; all she knew was that she couldn't lose him again, not when the butterfly pendant, not when Fate or whatever it was had brought him her way once more.  When she reached him she grasped onto his sleeve, making him stop, pulling him round to face her.

                   He swivelled and looked down at her - there wasn't any triumph, any sense of victory on his face.  His expression was as open and impassive as ever, his eyes searching her own, waiting for her, just like always… She didn't even have to think anymore.

                   “You have a heart,” she said with certainty, and placed her hand upon his breast, feeling his warmth, feeling his life pulsing away beneath his skin, and she wanted to catch it, she wanted to make it her own, even if he was the hunter and could never be caught… “Ah know you do,” she breathed.

                   It didn’t matter to him, it would _never_ matter to him; but it mattered to her, and that, in essence was _all_ that mattered.  She raised her eyes to his and this time she didn't flinch.

                   “You _don't_ know,” he answered softly. “What if I don't?  What if I'm just usin' you?”

                   “Ah'm willin' to take the risk,” she whispered back. “This time, Ah'm willin', Remy.”

                   His hand slipped over hers.  Despite everything, he smiled.

-oOo-

                   He took her back to the safe house, the one that he'd taken her to just over a year before.

                   Despite all her experience with other men she'd found herself unsure how to initiate anything with him.  Because with him it wasn't an act and it wasn't a seduction; it was something she wanted.  Standing there, in the middle of that little room, she'd felt out of her depth, frightened even.  Frightened of him, frightened of the hold he had over her heart.  And yet, somehow, she had _made_ him come to her.  She'd needed him and somehow he'd been there for her.  It was a combination of his need as well as her own that frightened her.

                   So she'd stood there.

                   How does a woman show a man that she cares for him, however tainted and flawed he may be, when caring for him can neither be shown nor implied?

                   In the end he'd come to her first; she'd accepted his slow and gentle kisses uncertainly, as if she had forgotten how to kiss.  And when he'd unclothed her, deliberately, sensuously, the thrill of exposure had never been so acute, so dreadful.  Because she understood now every intimation of his foreplay, of the sexual act.  She understood what every touch, every caress, every movement meant.  She understood the significance of what he did when he made love to her, in every minute detail.  It was the knowledge that had banished Eve from Eden.

                   But it had been different to the way it was with other men.  He was always very gentle, very tender with her, as if she were fragile and he was afraid to hurt her.  She could only suppose that even thieves and cold-blooded killers needed a little pretence at romance in their lives.

                  

                   They didn't say anything afterwards.

                   She lay on her stomach and stared at the wall, her hand trailing over the edge of the mattress and onto the carpet; she didn't want to see his face.  As usual she heard the click of his lighter behind her.  She wondered how much of his indifference was real and how much was just an act.  He was always so passionate, so attentive in his lovemaking that she found it difficult to believe that he could so easily disassociate himself from her.  Because underneath the nonchalance, underneath the calm, cold composure, she could _feel_ something there inside him.  It was more than just his charm, his humour, his vigour, his artifice.  It was something deeper even than all these things put together, a depth of feeling she could sense and yet could not touch, and it was perhaps this that attracted her to him the most.  The knowledge that he had a soul, one that nevertheless was shrouded.

                   “You _do_ have a heart,” she murmured accusingly at him, once the silence had settled.  He laughed.

                   “A heart maybe.  A conscience I'm not so sure about.”

                   She stared at the wall blankly.  Nothing about this place had changed - it was exactly the same as it had been before, virtually untouched, unchanged - their little time capsule.  She liked the idea of that.  She was suddenly grateful to him for having brought her here rather than anywhere else.

                   “You were testin' me back in Central Park, weren't you,” she spoke again, still accusing. “You knew Ah was gonna come with you.”

                   His reply was careless.

                   “Well, there ain't many women who can resist dis Cajun's charm,” he returned lightly.  She grunted and buried her face in the pillow.  Part of her wanted to slap him, but another part was still too flushed from the afterglow of orgasm to do so.  It was easier just to hide her face in shame.

                   “Are you still mad at me?” he questioned.

                   “After givin' a gal the time of her life, who could be mad at yah?” she muttered into the pillow, her voice muffled.  He chuckled knowingly.

                   “You're still mad at me,” he stated in an undertone.

                   “Peh.  Ah'm the one who decided t' come up here with you, ain't no one Ah've got reason to be mad at apart from myself.”

                   “I didn't mean dat,” he said slowly. “I meant about Kincaid.”

                   She opened her eyes, swivelled her head and stared at the wall again.

                   “Oh.”

                   “Well?”

                   She thought about it.

                   “It's your life,” she returned at last. “And you can do what you want.  Just as long as you don't do it in front of me again.  But what am Ah sayin'?” she suddenly spoke wryly to herself. “Hell, Ah don't even know if Ah'm ever gonna see you again.”

                   “Dat's true,” he said indifferently.  She was glad she couldn't see his face. “Unless I decide to go follow you around again,” he added pointedly. She groaned.

                   “Stop teasin' me about that.”

                   “I was bein' serious.”

                   “So you _have_ been followin' me round?” she queried archly.  She had, after all, felt as if someone had been tailing her for quite some time now, and she would honestly feel a lot better about it if it had been _him_ doing the stalking…

                   “Non.  I just happened to see you outside de FoH Headquarters t'night, figured I'd check you out.”

                   “Figured you'd 'check me out', huh?” she repeated sarcastically.

                   “Yup.  Why?  Didn't I 'check you out' thoroughly enough?” he asked, his tone suggestive.

                   “You've 'checked me out' most thoroughly, Cajun,” she retorted snidely. “Just remind me never to let you 'check me out' again, okay?  Ah've had a rougher ride t'night than Ah've had in years.  Bein' with you is nothin' short of traumatic.”

                   “It's all part of the fun, chere.”

                   “Watchin' you killin' someone isn't fun, swamp snake,” she remarked bitterly.  There was a long pause before he spoke again.

                   “You are _so_ still mad at me,” he murmured.

                   She said nothing to clarify it.  She didn't even know what she felt towards him anymore.  So much had happened that night that she still couldn't take it all in.  After a minute or so she heard him shift beside her; the next moment his hands where on her shoulders, kneading her flesh with expert hands.  She let out a soft murmur of approval at his touch, finally allowing herself to relax as she fell into the rolling cadence of the massage.  His movements were skilful, deft, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd done this a hundred times before.  Surprisingly, it didn't make her want to push him away.  She'd guessed already that he slept with other women, that to him she was just another lay amongst many.  She'd accepted that she'd never get any closer to him than this.

                   It was several minutes before he spoke.

                   “You said it was my life,” he stated curiously above her, the cigarette obviously clenched between his teeth. “Why are you still so bothered about it?”

                   “Yah think a sexy massage is all it's gonna take t' stop me bein' mad at yah?” she threw back at him acidly.  The rhythm of his hands on her back didn't stop, didn't even pause.

                   “I'm bein' serious,” he said.  And this time, his tone _was_ completely serious.

                   She said nothing for a long while.  Instead she closed her eyes, feeling his artful hands stroking the small of her back, moving back upwards, following the trail of her backbone, his fingers settling on the nape of her neck, rubbing her deftly, making her spine tingle, making her body unfurl again, and suddenly she knew… …

                   “When we were back in Kincaid's office…” she murmured, closing her eyes, remembering, “when you took that gun and pointed it at him… The look in your eyes… on your face…  Ah didn't recognise it.  Ah didn't know who you were.”

                   Above her, he paused momentarily, one hand leaving her skin to remove the cigarette from his mouth; she felt him lean over her, heard him stub out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray with a faint hiss.  Presently his hand returned.

                   “There's a lot you don't know 'bout me,” he stated quietly.  His fingers were still on her neck, ingratiating, insidious… Her core stirred pleasurably, her body ached with the ache of sudden need…

                   “Ah know,” she drawled thickly. “But that look, Remy… It was a side of you Ah'd never seen b'fore… And it scared me.” She gave a short, fluttering sigh. “But at the same time… somewhere inside… It really turned me on.”

                   _And maybe that's what frightens me most of all…_

                   His hands left her neck, and when they returned she felt them on the sides of her breasts, caressing them lightly; she arched involuntarily, a small whimper of desire escaping her throat.

                   “And is dat why you're mad at me?” he asked her silkily.

                   She wanted him, Lord she wanted him so badly…

                   She opened her eyes.

                   “Ah don't wanna fuck a man Ah don't know,” she whispered to the wall, her mouth suddenly dry.  She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as his hands moved lower, settling on her hips, circling slowly…

                   “But, chere, dat's what you've been doin' all along,” he murmured back.

                   Yes - she saw that now.  And yet, despite all the danger it entailed, she found she had feelings for him, this man she didn’t know.  She'd _always_ had feelings for him.

                   She turned over then, meeting his eyes for the first time since their conversation had begun.  She didn't find it hard now, to look into those soulful eyes, the handsome face that always seemed to hold too many secrets, too many lies.  She knew nothing about him.  But she would take him anyway.  She would take him because he was her escape, he was her fantasy, he was her dark angel Gabriel, and whatever he gave her was a thousand times better than anything she'd ever receive from anyone else.

                   “Ah know,” she said at last, and her voice held no regret.

                   He smiled, a small half-smile she couldn't read. He had conquered her, and they both knew it.

                   “Good,” he said softly.  She reached out, cupping his face in her hands, feeling the texture of him on her fingers.

                   “Good,” she echoed just as softly.

                   He leaned forwards, his mouth enveloping hers in an ardent kiss and she slid her hands into his hair, holding him close as she felt his hands travel up her body, smooth over her breasts and up towards her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, his fingers tickling the back of her neck, before his body closed over hers.  Flesh on flesh, her demon, always her demon… And yet he was good to touch, so very good to touch.

                   He kissed her neck, her ear, her hair, and when he penetrated her she didn't flinch, she didn't make any sound at all.  She stared over his shoulder, up at the ceiling, up into the horrible, heavy, all-consuming realisation that now loomed over her, thick and ominous and impermeable.

                   _Ah'm fallin' for you, Remy LeBeau.  So help me God, Ah'm fallin' for you._

 -oOo-

                   She woke up later, shuddering, to the echoes of screaming.  For a moment she thought she was in her own bed, alone and wreathed in darkness with only the insistent cries of her ghosts to keep her company.  It took a while for her to realise otherwise.  Outside the faint and unfamiliar baying of a dog sounded from somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint.  She swivelled onto her side.  Remy was lying asleep next to her; she couldn't see his face for the darkness.

                   He was still there.

                   Somehow it mattered to her that he was always still there when she woke up.

                   She reached out tentatively, finding his cheek and running a forefinger lightly down the side of his face.  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark, and now she could make out his features, the calmness of his face in repose.  She'd never seen him sleep before - somehow he seemed different this way; somehow his face seemed more open and less elusive.  And suddenly it became clear to her - she could absorb him now, find out all his hidden secrets, discover who he was and what he truly wanted.  It wouldn’t take much - he'd never know.

                   She couldn’t.  Touching him now whilst he slept, it was enough - she felt closer to him than she ever had before.  She felt as if she was finally touching the deep and impenetrable void that lay between them.

                   And suddenly it was all welling up inside her, for the first time in months and months and months, a surge of emotion she'd never known existed, heaving up within her, pushing so hard that she thought her body would burst with it, and she choked.  Hot tears were spilling out of her eyes, so thick and fast it was as if all the tears she'd ever stored inside her were at last pouring forth.

                   She couldn't bear it, not even if he wasn't conscious to witness it.

                   Sweeping the comforter aside, she staggered out of bed, went to the slightly open window, leaned her head against the sill and wept without a sound.  She wept because their sordid encounters were the only source of happiness she had; she wept because come the morning they would part and she would be nothing but a whore once more.

                   She wept because if there was one man in the world she could love, it would be him.

                   She wept until the birds began to twitter, and the darkness of night gave way to the luminous grey of daybreak.  Then she stood up, dried her eyes with the back of her hands, and stared out onto the dusty skyline.  The shadow of a new day was dawning, the day when she would leave her fantasy and return to her nightmare.  She didn't want to let it go.

                   Silently she padded back across the room to the mattress, slipping back in under the covers with a fatigue that consumed her utterly, from her bones to her very heart.  He was still asleep, and she curled into him, seeking his warmth.

                   He didn’t stir, and before long she fell back into a deep slumber.

 -oOo-

                   When she next awoke, it was to the sound of his voice.

                   “Rogue?  Rogue, wake up.”

                   She opened her eyes slowly.

                   He was leaning over her, his face hovering so close, and yet so far away.  His eyes were once again distant, detached; he was already dressed, that same battered old trench coat hanging off his shoulders, flooding her nostrils with the scent of his aftershave and the tang of old leather.  Her heart sank.  He was still there, but he'd already placed that gap between them, the gulf she'd never be able to surmount.

                   “Rogue, get up,” he murmured calmly, evenly. “It's eight in de mornin', girl, we gotta be gettin' back.”

                   She hated it, she hated _this_.  It was a game she didn't want to play anymore.

                   “Ah don't want to go,” she muttered mutinously, challenging him to agree with her, to say the same, to stay with her.  He didn't.  Something else crossed his face - vexation, disdain.

                   “So stay here then.  You think it's gon' do any good?  They'll come back for you, you know it.”

                   They.  The Brotherhood.  The ones who had let her become this creature she'd never wanted to become, for something vague and indefinable called 'the greater good'.  It'd been three years, and she still didn't see it.  She didn't care if they missed her, if they chased her down, or even if they killed her.  She hated them and she hated everything they stood for.

                   “Ah'm stayin' here,” she decided firmly.  It wasn't bravery, it was pure petulance and he had no time for it.

                   “For what?” he asked, stony-eyed. “There's a war goin' on outside, and however long you stay here it ain't gon' change dat fact.”

                   Rogue felt her temper begin to flair.  Didn't he understand?  Didn't he understand that the war, the cause, the suffering outside of this room didn't matter to her one iota, so long as he remained with her?

                   “Ah don't care,” she told him, her voice rising belligerently.  His eyes narrowed, flashed.

                   “Shit.  Fine then.  You stay here.  But I'm goin', chere.  Like it or not, Rogue, we got a job t' do, and dis don't mean a t'ing to me, chere, not a t'ing.  Dis is just sex, got dat?  Just sex.  It's time you learned to face dat fact.”

                   He pushed away from the bed and picked up his cigarettes and cards from the nightstand, leaving her simmering.  As she watched him stuff his few belongings into his coat pockets, she'd never felt so deceived, so betrayed in all her life.  He stomped towards the door and she pushed herself up against the pillows, the flame of anger spurting, twisting inside of her…

                   “Remy!” she snapped. “Don't you dare walk away!”

                   He swung round when he got to the doorway, his gaze like daggers.

                   “You're a fool, Rogue!” he shouted. “A fuckin' fool!  Everyt'ing in dis here room, it's fuckin' fantasy, don't you get it?  Just some stupid fling!  Sure, it's great and sure, it's fun, but outside of dese four walls, _dat's_ our real lives, _dat's_ who we are!  You stay in dis room, you can wait all you want, but I ain't comin' back.  Do you hear me?!  I ain't comin' back!”

                   He turned, his hand already on the door handle, and she shot up, her head pounding, her teeth clenched with anger.

                   “Ah don't believe yah!” she shrieked at him. “You _did_ come back!  You came back to _me_!”

                   There was a short quiet.  His body, which had been so taut and tense, suddenly slumped. He drew in a sigh, hung his head, and said to the door through gritted teeth: “It doesn't mean anythin'.”

                   She shook her head wildly, refusing to believe it.

                   “Yes it _does_! Don't lie to me!”

                   A short, cold laugh spasmed through his body.  There was a weariness about his shoulders that she hadn't seen before.

                   “It doesn't mean anythin',” he repeated in a low voice that wavered with pent-up frustration. “Outside of dis room - even inside of it - we're nothin', we can _have_ nobody, there can _be_ no emotions.  You heard what Kincaid called you.  Nameless, faceless, soulless.  We _all_ are.  Until de fight is won, until we're free, we _can_ be nobody, we have _no_ hearts to break.” He raised his head slowly, continued: “Outside, you and I, together or apart… we're meaningless.  We're terrorists, Rogue.  We're rebels with a cause.  By definition, we can have no ties, no loyalties, no loves.  Emotion is useless, chere.  It makes us stupid, it makes us reckless.  If we allow ourselves to feel, we might as well die.”

                   She stood, silent, his words sending a chill stealing through her as she understood what he meant.

                   _Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t feel anything for you_.

                   He _had_ a heart - a heart of glass.

                   She swallowed, looked down at her feet, feeling her eyes burning dangerously once more.

                   “You _can_ feel,” she whispered. “You _can_ …”

                   He said nothing to confirm or negate her words.  After a moment his hand pressed against the door handle, and when next he spoke his voice was low.

                   “I'm sorry, chere.  I'm sorry I ain't de man you thought I was.  Please - don't wait for me.  Don't do dat, Rogue.  For both our sakes.”

                   He opened the door then, walked over the threshold, closed it softly behind him.  She stood for what felt like a long time, letting the silence drift over her, cover her, wreathe her as though in snow.  His words resonated poignantly in her mind.  They were the rules that Mystique had tried to impress upon her from the very beginning - that emotion and empathy were useless, tantamount to suicide.

                   She didn’t believe it.

                   She didn’t believe for a second that he did either.

                   “Ah'm feelin',” she whispered to herself, “Ah'm feelin'.” She said it quietly at first, and as she said it she became bolder, more confident in her statement - she knew it was undeniably, unequivocally the truth. “Ah'm feelin',” she finally announced. “And Ah'm still alive.”

                   And she wasn't going to stop.  She wasn't going to stop feeling, because it was the only thing left in her of any worth, and she'd rather die feeling than live cold and emotionless.

                   _Ah'll wait for you, Remy, you just see.  Ah'll wait for you in my heart_.

                   It wasn't so hard when the time came, for her to walk out that door.

-oOo-


	11. Pinpricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambit is haunted by the memory of Rogue, and decides to make a concerted effort to keep her in his sights.

_Winter 2009 ~ Autumn 2010_

            He couldn't remember the name of the girl he'd been with when he'd got the call.  Very probably she'd been called Cindy or Susan, since he seemed to recall he'd been with someone of a similar name the previous summer.  She'd been red-haired and freckled, but he'd liked her for her green eyes more than anything else - brazen, laughing ones, not smoky, sad ones.

            It had been some time in early June; the weather had been pleasant, but not terribly hot yet - the days had been getting steadily longer, which meant that his night-time shifts were getting pushed back later and later.  He didn't mind so much.  It meant he got more time to mess around during the day.

            His cell phone had gone off on her nightstand about five times before he'd finally got round to answering it.

            “Yo,” greeted that perennially cheap and cheerful male voice. “Remy, man, what took you so long?  I've been tryin' to call you the past half hour or so.”

            “Sorry,” Remy replied with only a cursory stab at tactfulness. “I've been kinda busy.”        

            Lying in bed beside him, the redhead was snuggling up to him with the satisfied expression of a cat that'd got the cream.

            “Oooh,” came the knowing reply on a short laugh. “Gotcha.  I'm glad to know one of us is still havin' a good time these days.”

            “Don't tell me - she dumped you?”

            “Let's not talk about it.” For a moment, the cheerfulness had completely gone out of the voice. “From now on, I'm gonna be a strictly free agent.  Relationships are depressin', man.”

            “Den dere's a simple solution, homme - don't get into them.”

            “Which is how you always manage t' score, huh?”

            He slung his arm over the shoulder of the redhead, stroked her upper arm absently.

            “Uh huh.  So what exactly is it dat you so desperately wanted t' call me about?”

            “Well,” (and the cheerfulness had now completely returned), “you remember that side project you were talkin' about a few months back?  You know, the one about that girl?  Well, surprisingly, I've actually made some headway.”

            That got his attention.

            “You've found her?” he said.

            “Well, I _saw_ her.  That don't mean I know where she lives or what she does for a livin'.  _Yet_.”

            “You know I don't wanna know about dat stuff.  Where did you see her?  When?” he asked rather more urgently than he'd meant to.  Beside him, the redhead had stirred.

            “Outside some swanky apartment in Long Island the other night.  Looks like she was on some sorta mission or somethin'.” He paused, added animatedly: “Man, she is _cute_.”

            He grinned.

            “I told you so.  But hands off.  She's mine.”

            “Yeah.” The voice was now faintly sarcastic. “I kinda guessed.  So _that's_ what this is all about, huh?  Some sorta weird form of stalkin'?  Maybe I should get you onto my girl for me, Rems - perhaps then she'll come back t' me.”

            “Peh.  Dat'll be de day.  No way I'm gettin' involved in your affairs, homme, gettin' involved in my own is bad enough.” He paused momentarily. “So - you seen her again since den?”

            “I'm workin' on it.  The geo profile’s gonna take some time, Remy, you know how it is.  Gotta figure out her pattern… Ain't gonna be easy.  But I've got her mark now.  Man, have I got her mark,” he finished wistfully.

            “Hmm,” Remy sounded wryly. “Well, just keep me in de loop, d'accord?  I'll let you know when I'm gonna make a move.”

            “Will do.  In the meantime, have fun and don't work too hard, okay?”

            “Don't worry, I won't.”

            “Yeah, I know - you never do.”

            “It's de secret t' my success.”

            “Naturally.  Speak to you later, Rems.”

            “See yah.”

            He ended the call and threw the phone back onto the nightstand.

            “ _Her_?” Cindy/Susan spoke up suspiciously. “A girl?”

            He grinned easily.

            “Just a job, chere,” he answered without hesitation, without even a flicker of the eye.  The redhead pouted, then relented.

            “So, what _exactly_ is it you do again?”

            “Not'ing int'restin',” he answered flippantly, idly brushing a loose lock of hair from her cheek before pulling the covers aside and stepping out of bed. “I guess you could say I'm in de missin' persons business.”

            “Oh?  And this girl… she's gone missing?” she mumbled on a yawn.  He stepped into his boxers and crossed the room, going for a fresh packet of cigarettes.

            “Yup.”

            “Oh.  Cool.”

            She'd already lost interest.  When he looked back, she'd turned over and was huddled back under the covers.

            “Mind if I use your shower?” he asked.  She merely hummed her assent.

           

            When he came out again ten minutes later, she was already fast asleep.  Taking the opportunity, he dressed quickly, and left without once looking back.

 -oOo-

            It'd become a new form of obsession to him, something to keep him going through the day, a new kind of cheap thrill.

            It was the thrill of knowing that somewhere out there she was alive, and that moreover she was traceable, watchable, attainable.  All through summer, all through autumn she was at the back of his mind, egging him on to bigger and riskier heists; he was being more reckless, getting injured more, but it was good, it was a gleeful and masochistic sense of victory over something he couldn't even describe.  Over time, a distinct pattern began to emerge - she'd show up here, and then there, and then back here again; her network of associates was determined, her potential targets established.

            He of course, didn't care for any of these things.  Just as long as he could be told when and where to find her, none of the rest mattered to him.  He was weaving a secret web around her and she wasn’t even aware of it; he was hunting her down, ghosting her every step without even being near her.  He got a buzz, a rush out of this fact more than anything - that he seduced her without even so much as a touch or a kiss.  She was going to be his in every sense of the word - no movement she made could ever escape him should he so wish.

            And yet, he couldn't help the curious sense that _she_ was the one baiting _him_ , that he was the one being drawn into her web, and that she was the widow spider, lying in wait for him, calm and voluptuous, at the centre.

           

            It had only been a few days into December when he had made the decision.

            He'd woken up in the early afternoon with a raging hangover - the job the previous night had been shitty and after delivering the goods he'd spent the remainder of the night drowning his sorrows in some beer he'd purloined from a 7-Eleven on the way home.  When he'd woken up, the first thing he'd thought about was her.  He was bored of waiting.  He needed some balm for the previous night and the best way to get that was to see her again.

            She always made him think of the better days they'd shared - the days back at the mansion with Xavier's fucked up brood, days when he'd almost successfully kidded himself into believing there was something better, before they had so cruelly been cut short.

            It was a little balm for his aching soul, and that day he'd wanted it.

            The cheap and cheerful male voice had been even more cheerful than usual when he'd rung him up, which led him to suppose that he and 'his girl' had got back together.

            “Yo, Remy, whassup?” was the never-changing greeting, one of the few peculiar constants in Remy's life.  He'd gone to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, popped a few more pills.  He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.

            “My side project.  Got any updates?”

            “Man, Rems, you sound rough.  What happened last night?”

            He didn't want to talk about it.

            “Not'ing.  Just wanna hear 'bout my side project, homme.”

            Something in his voice had communicated that this was more than just business.  There was a deep breath on the line before the reply came.

            “She's on the move.  Tonight.”

            “Bon,” Remy returned decidedly. He shut the cabinet, stared at himself in the mirror.  Jesus, he looked like shit.  “Look, I wanna make contact.  Can you arrange a meet?”

            “Sure.  She'll be at the FoH Headquarters at eight p.m. tonight.  Looks like this is gonna be a big one.  I would warn you to stay out of it, Rems, but somethin' tells me --”

            “No, I'm not gonna wait.  It's contact t'night or never.”

            “Rems…”

            “T'anks for de concern, mon ami, but it ain't needed.  Her mission is her business, I ain't gonna pry.  I just wanna meet.  Okay?”

            “Okay,” came the wary reply. “But, man, this girl's got eyes.  And I know how you get with the girls who've got eyes.”

            “Trust me.  I ain't gonna pry.”

           

            Sometimes, he forgot Storm's old advice that it was a bad idea to make promises he couldn't keep.

 -oOo-

            He had gone to the FoH Headquarters at a quarter to eight and hung around in the shadows, his stomach churning with impatience and lust.  He'd figured if he was going to bust in, it would've been through a back utility door, and sure enough, at eight o'clock on the dot, there she'd appeared.  He'd had every intention of hanging around and waiting for her to come out again, but as soon as she'd disappeared into the building, his curiosity had got the better of him and he'd followed her in.  She was tense, she was wary, but she was focused.  If he had been less of a thief perhaps she would have noticed he was tailing her, but he could be a ghost when he wanted to be and she noticed nothing.

            But when he'd realised it was Kincaid she was after, he should've known that then was the time to back away, if any.

            He hadn’t.

           

            Killing Kincaid had meant little to him; what concerned him was the fact that it meant something to her.

            Contrary to what she may have believed, he didn't kill for sport, and he didn't kill without reason.  He killed Kincaid because she wouldn’t; he killed him to protect her.

            And from the very moment he'd done so, he'd plunged himself into something deeper than he'd ever intended to get himself into.

            It didn’t mean that he didn't think Rogue was naïve and emotional and foolish.  Her naïveté irritated him, her sensitivity was something he found redundant, even dangerous in their line of work.  And yet her innocence was part of what attracted him to her - it always had done.  While it frustrated him that she still clung so stubbornly onto Xavier's legacy, it was also a source of comfort to him, something that he wished to protect in her at all costs - because it was an innocence that he'd lost himself.  A radical, a militant and a dissident Rogue may be, but she wasn't a cold-blooded killer, and somehow, that made all the difference.  It was something he wished to preserve in her as far as he could.  That was why he had killed Kincaid.  That was why he had pulled the trigger.

            And he would again, if it would keep Xavier's flame burning inside her.

            Still, out of the Kincaid disaster, he'd managed to get what he'd gone there for.  She hadn't been able to resist him - he'd known she wouldn't.  He'd taken her back to the safe house because somehow it'd seemed right, even though he hadn't stepped a foot within its four walls since he'd last been there with her.  She'd been nervous, uncertain, standing in the middle of the room solitary and forlorn, a strange little girl with nowhere to go and no one to run to.  He was her refuge, as she was his.

            He'd placed his hands on her arms and smiled at her as encouragingly as he could.  The smile she'd replied with had wavered on her lips like a candle flickering in the night.  He'd kissed that smile, slow, unhurried, and she'd trembled under his touch; she kissed like a novice, self-consciously, and he found her inexperience endearing, arousing even.  It was one of the things he liked most about being with her - that with her everything seemed meaningful, sincere, wistful and romantic.  To him, nothing had felt like this in years - romance was a dead thing.  But somehow, in the midst of the grim and monotonous horrors that encompassed everyday life, she had managed to remain untouched and unspoiled, a quiet little flame burning away in an unknown and neglected corner, one that seemed to burn just for him.

            He was greedy.  He wanted it all to himself, even if only for just one night of whimsical escapism.

 -oOo-

            He hadn't slept.

            He'd lain in the darkness, listening to the regular sound of her breathing, watching her sleep.  He dozed off at odd intervals, but whenever he awoke her face had been there, clear and untroubled.  She was very beautiful.  He hadn't touched her for fear of waking her and spoiling it all.

            At about five thirty she'd woken.  He hadn't wanted the softness of kisses, the carelessness of pillow talk.  It had been far easier to feign sleep.  He hadn't moved, hadn't blinked when he felt her touch his face, running a finger over his cheek with a tenderness he'd never wanted nor asked for.  And when he'd heard her break down, when she'd moved away and gone to the window, it was as if a coldness had filled him from head to toe.

            Her tears had been completely soundless, but he'd known that she was crying.  He'd watched her weep at the window feeling awkward, knowing he was witnessing something more private, more personal than anything else he'd witnessed yet from her, and that in watching her he was crossing a boundary he had no right to cross.  And yet, it was not only embarrassment that filled him.  It was also anger.  Anger at her weakness, anger at her sentimentality, anger that she cried for him.  He didn't want it.  He didn't want her affection, he didn't want her tears, and he didn't want her love.  He wanted her to be strong, he wanted her to be as ruthless and impenetrable as he was.  That she allowed herself to cry was a betrayal of the trust he'd placed in her, the trust that their meetings would be nothing more than pure indulgence.

            And so he made no move to go to her, to comfort her.  He'd made his terms clear; if she couldn't abide by them, he had no sympathy for her.  He wasn't about to be guilt-tripped into a love affair with her.

            The next morning he'd woken up still feeling angry.  He'd shouted at her, very nearly smashed a few things and walked out hoping he never had to see her again.

           

            It took him all of two months to change his mind.

 -oOo-

            The winter of 2009 gave way to the spring of 2010; Remy celebrated the New Year and a new decade by getting horribly drunk.  All in all, he entered 2010 in just about the worst way possible.  Ashamed, alone and completely paralytic.  After the way he'd bowed out of 2009, he reckoned it was the least he deserved.

            He woke up the next afternoon sprawled out on the sofa, several bottles of whiskey littered about the floor around him.  He got up painfully, vomited violently and showered.  He couldn't stomach breakfast, so he got some coffee and rifled through the newspaper.  He didn't read the newspaper much these days - but that day he'd had a specific reason to look.

            He found it on page fifteen, in a small column underneath another short article about the Sentinel Mark 3 project being delayed due to technical problems.

            _'MUTANT KIDNAPPER STILL AT LARGE'._

            Remy scanned the article quickly, but found very little of interest.  A mutant activist had broken into a little-known juvenile internment camp on the outskirts of the city and abducted one of the inmates.  The current whereabouts of both the kidnapper and the captive were a mystery, despite the police, the military and Hounds all being put on the case.  The article was very brisk, very terse, and gave no more news on the matter.

            Remy took a swig of coffee and flipped back to the front page.  The Kincaid murder was still headline news.  Headway on the subsequent murder investigation was slow and incompetent - people were now calling for a public inquiry, they wanted to know if it was an inside job, if security should be tighter, whether the militia shouldn't be doing something more about mutant terrorists.  Kincaid, they said, had always been a champion of baseline human rights - he was a natural target for radical mutant groups, he should've been better protected.  Even those fancy new power nullifiers based on state-of-the-art nano-technology hadn't been good enough to save him.  What was needed was more internment camps.  The last of the mutant radicals needed to be flushed out and sent to the gas chamber.  They'd been tolerated long enough.  Might as well kill the others in the internment camps too - people like the X-Men were still mutant figureheads, they could still cause trouble.

            It was the usual anti-mutant hyperbole, but underneath it all Remy could see one thing very clearly - nothing much had been discovered about the case.  No one knew about him or Rogue.  _Yet._

            Remy closed the paper again disdainfully, got up and went for the Tylenol.  He was as annoyed with himself as he was with the media.  After all, if he hadn't been such an idiot last month he wouldn't have had to read the stupid papers anyway.  Killing Kincaid had been one thing.  Almost getting caught on a job had been another.  It had been the first time he'd allowed his emotions to get in the way of his work, and it had almost cost him everything - his better judgement, his freedom, his life.  He'd even had to move apartments a couple of times because of it, and a month down the line he was still lying low on the business front.  His employer hadn't called in weeks as a precaution.  But all that was neither here nor there.  What bothered him more acutely was that, five weeks on, the case still left a bitter taste in his mouth and he knew it'd be a while before the nightmares disappeared completely.

           

            He should've known from the moment his boss had told him he had to go to a juvenile internment camp that the whole exercise had been bad news.  But he'd still gone and done it because he was reliable and he never turned down a job - it was what he prided himself in, the fact that he would do any job, however grey, no questions asked.  But he hadn't been prepared for this.

            It was only when he'd been looking at his target on the other side of prison bars that he'd had any idea what he was letting himself in for.

            His name was Leech.

            He was little more than a child; it must've been only a year or so since his powers had first manifested.  He was ugly and stunted, horribly deformed, more alien than human, a true mutant in every sense.  And yet, as he had sat hunched at the back of his cell, staring back at Remy without even simple curiosity, there had been something in his eyes that suggested something more human than Remy had ever seen, even in himself.  It wasn't the resignation, it wasn't even the anguish.  It was the pleading in that boy's eyes that had tied knots in Remy's stomach, the pleading to be delivered from the torment he endured daily, to a life he could simply call 'normal'.

            It was something Remy hadn't been able to offer him.

            Leech knew suffering.  It was a kind of suffering most mutants didn't experience, even mutants double his age.  Leech was precious to the military because of one crucial thing - his mutant power.  He had the ability to cancel out other mutant's powers.

            It was a power that Leech had never asked for, nor that he had ever found of any particular use.  But to the military, it was a godsend - it was an effective way of stopping other mutants from accessing their own powers.  Leech was their weapon; he was forced to watch his own kind be tortured while he stripped them of their powers.  It was their screams that lulled him to sleep most nights in bed, when he grappled with the knowledge that, at thirteen, he was nothing, he was _worse_ than nothing, lower than the low - he was a mutant, and a traitor of mutants; he was the torturer and the tortured.

            It was precisely this power to negate mutant powers that had made him so precious to Remy's employer.

           

            Being faced with the eyes of a young child had made Remy reckless, even lose his nerve.  Men, even women he could do - but children were a different matter.  How could he free this boy from bondage and turn him over to bondage of a different kind?  For the first time, Remy had questioned himself.  And it was that hesitation that could've cost him his life and his sanity. It was only when he'd realised that surveillance had spotted him that he'd made up his mind.  He'd broken into the cell, unshackled the prisoner.

            Leech hadn't moved.

            In the end he'd had to take the boy over his shoulder and carry him out.  It'd slowed him down, made him more conspicuous.  He hadn't had time to free anyone else as he'd first intended.  By the time he'd got to the perimeter fence he'd been jumped on by four guards and beaten up pretty bad.  How he'd managed to get both himself and the boy out had been more a fluke than down to any skill on his part - it made him shudder just to think about it.

            But what haunted him, what made him shudder the most was the last look Leech had given him before they'd parted.

            The wounded, accusing stare of the mute.

           

            Afterwards he'd gone to the 7-Eleven, stolen some beer and come home wasted.

           

            The next morning he'd woken up and decided he needed to see Rogue again.

 -oOo-

            It was early February when his boss finally called him again.  He didn't know whether to be glad or upset.  He didn't need to be employed to be happy - in the couple of months he'd been jobless, he'd got back in touch with his thieving instincts, making his living in other, equally dubious ways - but on the other hand he felt tied to his employer in a less than genial way, as if he was being threatened to remain in their service.  That was why, ultimately, he always went back, even if the incident with Leech had somehow subtly changed him.

            Thankfully his new assignments were less risky, both physically and emotionally, which was a good thing because his taste for breaking out and freeing mutants had waned.  Consequently he spent most of his days wandering listlessly and picking random pockets.  After all those years keeping feverishly busy, this was a loss of purpose that was alien to him.

           

            On Valentine's Day, Murray was away on business.

            Remy paid a visit to Rita, who was in a more morose mood than usual, but she didn’t kick him out for it.  As soon as he'd walked in the door, he knew it was probably a mistake going to see her, but then again, he figured they both needed a little solace that day, even if they could only find it in each other.  Besides, he hadn’t seen her in months.

            It was all very listless and pointless; afterwards they sat up in bed and barely said a word.  Even Rita seemed reluctant to elaborate on her problems.  Ever since their last encounter, something had shifted between them - it was like shooting at a target board askance.  It had taken something out of the pleasure of their association.  Perhaps it was because the true nature of their relationship had now been revealed to them in stark and certain terms - he'd divulged a very personal part of himself that he'd divulged to nobody else, and in a way, it made him uneasy to know that Rita knew one of his innermost secrets.

            “So,” she asked, when even the silence had begun to depress them. “Did you ever find her?  That girl?”

            Remy stared into the bottom of his ashtray and gave a non-committal grunt of agreement.  It was Valentine's Day, and he didn't want to think about Rogue.  He regretted the way they'd parted last December.  It wasn't her fault she was so idealistic, and after all, he was the one who'd gone chasing after her.

            “Yeah,” he said at last. “I found her.”

            “How was it?” she probed.

            “I dunno.  De novelty wore off pretty fast.”

            “Oh,” she said.  He made no further elucidation, placed the ashtray aside, and got out of bed.  He felt restless - he often did, but not for stretches this long.  Even work had lost its buzz.  He'd never felt this directionless in his life.

            “Wanna talk about it?” she asked.  He stepped up beside the window, opened it as he often did, and looked out. Rain was pouring in thick slats, filling the room with the raw tang of moisture and ozone.

            “I dunno,” he muttered.

            “It might help,” she remarked matter-of-factly.  He looked back over his shoulder.  She was lying on her stomach, her white, freckled skin glimmering against the dark blue comforter.  She had every appearance of a very pampered feline.

            “Fuck you, Rita, you ain't my shrink,” he mumbled uncharitably.

            “Didn’t stop you from spillin' last time,” she noted wryly. “What happened?  Did she reject you?”

            He looked away, laughing humourlessly at the rain. “Heh.  Who ever heard of it?  A woman who rejected Remy LeBeau?”

            “Maybe it'd do you some good if someone did,” she pointed out sardonically. “It might make you a more sensitive person.”

            “I'm very sensitive,” he retorted acidly, annoyed at her words. “Don’t I always know exactly what you want whenever I come here?”

            “That's a different kind of sensitivity, Remy.” He heard her roll over onto her back. “So did she?  Reject you, I mean?”

            The rain was getting heavier, so heavy he could barely peer through it.  Reject him?  Hardly.  If anything he was the one who'd rejected her, and yet, having just slept with Rita he was being mysteriously haunted by memories of kissing that beautiful, soft mouth, of feeling the electricity he got when she closed her eyes and kissed him back…

            “Non,” he answered in a sudden, vehement rush without thinking. “I told her to fuck off.  Stupid femme was takin' everyt'ing too seriously.  I got pissed 'cos I did her a favour.  And before you say it, no, not de sexual kind.  I did somet'ing big for her and she was fuckin' ungrateful.  She wanted more when she knew I couldn’t give anymore.  And she knew from de beginnin' dat I couldn’t - she knows de deal b'tween us.  I ain't gonna be guilt-tripped into a relationship wit' anyone.”

            He halted and took in a deep breath.  There.  He'd said it.  He'd said it all and he was surprised to feel relieved that he'd actually talked about it, that he'd actually vented his frustration in some fashion.  Behind him, Rita laughed, deep and sexy.

            “Remy, baby, surely you're savvy enough to know that something like this was _bound_ to happen sometime?  The girls are crazy about you!”

            “ _You're_ not.”

            “Of course I'm not.  I already love someone else.  That doesn't make me immune to your charms, but it makes me immune to fallin' in love with your sorry ass.”

            “Pfft.  Dis femme knows de score.  She knows how t'ings work b'tween people like us.”

            “Yeah, whatever,” she retorted disdainfully. “But get a woman together with a man like you, and logic is bound to be blown outta the window.  It ain't just the sex appeal, Remy.  It ain't even the bad boy appeal.  You've got a certain something else that drives girls crazy.  Just a look from your eyes and you can make them believe they're _the one_.  Do you even realise that?”

            He shook his head.

            “Dis girl ain't like dat.  She knows me.  She's just bein' stubborn.  God knows she was always so goddamn stubborn.” He sighed, a little of the rancour going out of him. “Guess I can't blame her for dat.  She was always dat way.  Always so damn emotional.  Never met anyone wit' so much self-pity.  I remember, once she said --”

            He halted abruptly mid-sentence, realising that he'd just been about to recount something he'd never repeated to anyone, let alone a casual acquaintance like Rita.  Her face in the dimness, those questing green eyes staring at him through the smoky haze of a dimly lit bar, so serious, so earnest, so wonderfully disarming, so disarmingly child-woman…

            _Ah first used mah powers when Ah was thirteen. And when Ah did… Ah changed.  Haven't felt like mah old self since then.  Ah'm just Rogue. That's all._

            Rogue and yet so much more.

            He wondered whether the voices in her head still screamed at her at night.

            “What did she say?” Rita asked indifferently, lighting up a cigarette in the background.  A gust of wind blew up by the window; rain sprinkled against his face, cool as sea-spray.

            “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

            “You still angry at her?” she asked.

            “Kind of.  Sometimes, I just wish she'd wake up, you know?  She's still so… so old world.  Still so morally black and white, even when she knows it could get her killed.”

            “And you just wanna protect her from that?” Rita half-queried, half-stated.  He paused, and thought about it, not for the first time unnerved by Rita's astuteness.  He turned away from the window.  Rita was lying on her back, pale and voluptuous.

            “Yeah,” he replied at last. “I guess a part of me does.  And de other part just wants to shake all dat old world shit outta her.”

            “Why bother?” Rita advised him evenly. “Maybe she clings to what she does because it's what keeps her going.  Just like sex and cigarettes and kleptomania are what keep you going.  Different things are precious to different people.  One day, she'll learn – the hard way.”

            There was an ominous quality to her voice that made him shudder instinctively.  Outside, the rainfall had now grown into a storm.  He pulled the window to; the wind and rain pelted against the pane, incessant and violent.  He walked over to the bed and slid over Rita's long-limbed and shapely body, closed his eyes, kissed her pale pink lips, and this time there was an emotion inside him, one he couldn't place…

            He paused, hesitating; and then her fingers were in his hair, stroking him, sympathetic, encouraging…

            “It's okay…” she whispered into his ear, “I know, Remy.   That when you fuck me… she's the one you'll be making love to.”

 -oOo-

            It was May when he went back to the safe house.

            He hadn't stepped a foot in there since December, and when he turned the key in the lock and pushed the rickety, creaking door aside, a part of him half suspected that she would still be in there, waiting.

            She wasn't.

            Of course she wasn't.

            The room was inhabited only by dust and a faint, musty odour.  The bed sheets were still crumpled on the mattress the way they had been when he'd left, when she'd stood right there with them gathered, snow white, at her feet.  She was gone; she'd always been gone.

            Silently he dropped the heavy pack at his feet, turned, and locked and bolted the door.  Then he went over to the mattress, bent down on one knee and curled his fist into it, raised it to his face, closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath.  It still smelt of her, very faintly.  Orange blossom and vanilla.  She had lain right here that night, on her stomach, looking at the wall, trying desperately to ignore him when all the while her body had been screaming to him so painfully it had been obvious.

            He opened his eyes again, dropped the fistful of linen, and set about straightening it.  Then he went back over to his pack lying in the middle of the floor, and unzipped it.  Methodically he unpacked its contents - towels, a kettle, an electric heater, a lamp.  When he had done this, he zipped up the bag again and stared at the items laid out in an orderly row across the floor.  He felt strange, looking at such ordinary household items in the middle of such a small, dreary space.  What was he doing here, why was he doing this?  What was the point?

            It wouldn't do to ask questions.  He simply switched off his mind the same way he switched it off whenever he had to kill someone and got to work arranging the various items around the room.  Five minutes later, he was done.  He went to the window and opened it a little to take away the stale odour of disuse, then looked about at his handiwork.  He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.  _Stupid, stupid_ , he thought.  It had been dangerous, coming here without any real necessity.  Even taking her here for nothing more than sex was dangerous, and yet it seemed right to do it, to do _this_.

            He didn’t want to stay a moment longer than he had to.  Quietly he shut the window again, picked up the empty pack, and unbolted the door.

            He turned just once before he pulled open the door and stepped over the threshold.  Having secured the dingy apartment once more, he slipped away as silent as a revenant into the night.  Some time, maybe in a month or two, he would return.

           

            But for now, it was back to business.

 -oOo-

            He went back two or three more times, each time with something different in his pack.  Spring slipped into summer, weary, sluggish… By autumn she was on his mind most days, and more than just a few nights.  He would dream of her, dream of running his hands over that silky sea of skin, of sinking his body into it and…

            He would wake up slick and aroused, panting, feeling an acute and penetrating sense of loss.  She would lie there with him almost every night, silent and ghostly, invisible arms about him, fuelling his lust, his desire.

            And yet he possessed nothing of her, not even her name.  No physical connection by way of an address written on a small scrap of paper that he could horde in his wallet.  No photo - the only photo he'd seen of her had been on Xavier's desk in his office years ago, an informal group affair that had stared at him every time he'd sat across that desk awaiting a stern reprimand for some minor misdemeanour or another.  He had very few memories to speak of - their acquaintance during their time with the X-Men had spanned little more than a year, and they'd never really got closer than a few casual dates.  He didn't even know basic things about her.  What was her favourite food, her favourite colour, her favourite place?  All he knew for sure was what she presented him with whenever he encountered her.  The insular reflectiveness, the childlike uncertainty, the tentative tokens of affection; the way she kissed him, shy, self-conscious; the malleable smoothness of her body against his; the softness of her cries as she clung to him, as she orgasmed with him…

            The way she called his name.

            It was all he had.

            It wasn’t nearly enough and he needed more.

           

            Mid-November would have been temperate if it had not been so windy.  The grey, grimy streets of New York City were windswept, dying leaves and stray plastic bags zooming down the sidewalks faster than thought.

            That day, Remy stepped out of a local convenience store, pocketed the cigarettes, condoms and cards he'd just bought, and stared out over the skyline.  A convoy of Sentinels was patrolling a street several blocks down, their perfectly symmetrical and dispassionate faces looming over the skyscrapers, menacing, omnipotent.  No doubt the military would be nearby as well.  It was best if he went back to his apartment right now - for a mutant to be seen on the streets by a patrol was to invite a stop-and-search at the very least, and that was the last thing Remy needed.

            He lit up a cigarette from the new packet and pivoted on his foot, began walking in the general direction of his apartment with an outwardly unruffled yet hurried pace.  To be seen rushing anywhere was suspicious in the vicinity of a patrol.  Many people had had the same idea as him; the streets had suddenly become flooded with people eager to move out of the path of the Sentinels.  Even baseline humans preferred to stay out of their way.  Nevertheless Remy kept up his relatively calm pace - ten minutes at least and he'd be home.

            It was then that the scream pierced the air, shrill and plaintive, neither discernibly male or female; it could not have been closer than a couple of blocks away, and yet that one sound sent everyone on the street into a wordless frenzy.  Even the statics were suddenly running, looking back over their shoulders with worried, hunted expressions over their faces - whatever the trouble was, no one wanted to be part of it, it was a group consensus between both baseline human and mutant that no one should be involved.  Within a few seconds, Remy was part of a huge, swimming crowd, being jostled this way and that - he was literally swept along on the tide of bodies towards the end of the street.

            It was just as he'd resigned himself to this that someone bumped into him from behind, ran past him, and back into the crowd.  For a split second he caught a streak of white hair, the unmistakable scent of a woman.  It was only a split second, he had barely seen a thing, no face, no form, but at the sight of that white streak of hair something inside him had inexplicably burst into flame, and his heart was suddenly thudding painfully, he was picking up his pace, he was pushing into the throng, elbowing people aside, swallowing down the urge to call out her name for fear he might give her away…

            And suddenly he'd broken out of the front of the crowd, and there she was, only a few metres in front with her back to him, arm outstretched, hair streaming out behind her…

            “Tommy!” she called in a strange, high-pitched voice he didn’t recognise.

            A little fair-haired boy was cowering in the middle of the sidewalk, and Rogue was bending down onto both knees, her arms encircling the small child, crushing him against her bosom in a motherly, protective embrace; she was sobbing, rocking him, cradling him…

            She opened her eyes and they were brown.

            As soon as he saw her eyes it was as though his heart had been ripped from his chest.

            It wasn’t her.

            “Tommy, you naughty boy, I told you not to run away from me like that, _don’t_ do that again Tommy, promise mommy you won't ever do that again…”

            She stood, still cradling the weeping boy against her, and he saw that her body was wrong, the way she walked, the way she held herself was all wrong… And the face, it wasn’t only the eyes, the lips were too thin, too wide… Stupid, stupid, he'd been a fool to believe it was her…

            He stood there, rooted to the middle of the sidewalk, feeling drained, deflated, as if the flame inside him - the flame that had burst into life so quickly - had simply been snuffed out in a moment.  The crowd had caught up with him, were pushing past him; but he remained there, watching the woman carry her child away; watching Rogue walk away from him, watching Leech walk away from him, watching everything walk away from him.

-oOo-

-END OF PART THREE-


	12. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue takes on a mission that will involve all her seduction skills and force her to cross a painful and personal invisible line.

\- PART FOUR -

_Winter 2010_

            Forge was working on a new project.

            Rogue knew this because whenever he was working on something new she wouldn’t see him for days - he would be holed up in his workshop tinkering with his gadgets; the house would stink of solder for days, it would permeate your clothing and your nostrils, even the very pores of your skin.  Rogue would often venture there, bringing him a spartan meal of either porridge, cereal or soup, which he would barely eat anyway.  Sometimes, she would stay and watch him work, because it afforded her the peace and quiet she so often lacked with other members of the Brotherhood, and because she knew that with Forge, she would never need to speak.

            That was why she was here now.

            She was sitting in a corner, surrounded by the incomplete skeletons of gizmos and gadgets, watching the one-time Cheyenne warrior examining the elbow joint of a mechanical arm, a look of deep dissatisfaction on his face.  His lunch, as usual, remained untouched.  He hadn't even looked at it since she'd brought it in.

            Forge's was a tired, lined face, and the first streaks of grey were showing in his thick, black crop of hair.  Though he had aged greatly during the years, his was still a noble countenance, proud as the eagle, wise as the wolf.  There was no particularly great affection between Rogue and the Cheyenne - yet nevertheless, she felt attached to him in a way that she did not feel attached to the others, because he was the only member of the Brotherhood that had once been an X-Man like herself.  She knew he felt the same way about her too.  Though she had never understood him, she had always greatly respected him, and likewise, whilst he felt no personal affinity with her, he treated her as an equal, as a fellow follower in Xavier's great dream.  And so, while they spoke little in one another's company, they were entirely comfortable in maintaining this silence, and Rogue was perfectly happy to spend an hour or two in his workshop simply watching him.

            She had never once asked him about their time with the X-Men.  She had refrained from doing so because she knew that was a part of both their lives that was dead, a mutually buried past.  And yet, ever since she had met Remy again, ever since discovering that some of the other X-Men were still alive, there had been times when she had considered reminiscing with him.  Two years ago, thoughts of Xavier and the X-Men would have been too painful for her, yet now she found an odd sense of comfort in them.  Perhaps he would think so too.

            There was a clang of metal on metal as Forge decided his contraption was useless and threw it onto the already large pile of scrap that had gathered at his feet.  Rogue sat on her stool by the door and watched thoughtfully as he picked up a small, black, box-shaped device from a drawer in a nearby work-table, and began to take it apart in a series of quick, deft yet delicate movements.  She admired the way he used those worn hands, with the efficiency of a machine, yet with the grace of something feline.  He had long, sensitive, artful fingers - the way they looked, the way they moved reminded her of that massage back in the safe house what must have been nearly a year ago… Had it really been that long ago?

            Everything felt so long ago… …

            “Forge?” she spoke into the silence very suddenly.  She saw his eyes flash as he looked up at her briefly.  He was surprised - at the best of times barely two words would be exchanged between them; mostly, they would exchange none.

            “Yup?” he asked.  There had been no break at all in the movement of his hands as he unscrewed the box, which fell apart into two separate pieces, like hard, black beetle wings.

            “Do you ever think about them?” she asked. “The X-Men, Ah mean?”

            He didn’t once look up from his work; his smile was small. “Why?  Would you be surprised if I did?”

            She stared at him.  Inside the black box was a complex circuit board made out of rudimentary materials, which he fell upon with a queer, animal greed.

            “Ah don’t know,” she answered at last, still watching his fingers as they danced across the tiny board, pulling apart wires and putting them back together again. “Ah don’t recall you ever talkin' about them.”

            “Likewise,” he replied wryly.  Without looking up, he reached for the soldering iron on the worktop beside him and set about fusing the rearranged wires onto the circuit board. “I guess I always thought… after what happened with your brother… it would be a touchy subject with you.”

            So that was the reason.  Go figure.

            “Ah see,” she murmured.  His eyes flashed over her once, then back again.

            “Did I guess wrong?” he queried.

            “No…Yes.  Ah dunno.” She took a deep breath. “Ah suppose Ah never really knew how Ah felt.  Ah guess Ah thought you didn’t want to talk about it either.”

            He half laughed.

            “Me?  No.  What's done is done - and there isn't much use in dwelling on the past.” He stopped soldering, considered his handiwork a moment. “That isn't to say that what happened didn’t affect me deeply.  Or that it wasn’t a time of great sorrow.  Or that I don’t miss those that were lost. I don’t think there's a day that goes by without me thinking about them.  But…” and he smiled, faint, nostalgic, “I choose to honour their memories, rather than mourn them.  Then the tragedy does not become so hard to bear.  In many ways, it is a joy.”

            He finished, set aside the finished circuit board, and began to rifle through the scraps at his feet.

            “But what if they're not dead?” she quizzed him eagerly. “There are still some out there, Ah _know_ it.  What if there's nothin' to mourn after all?”

            “Then I'm sure Mystique will find a way to locate them, and free them,” he returned matter-of-factly, sitting up with a few small fragments of metal in his hands. “The truth is, Rogue, we don’t know how many of them are alive or what state of mind they may be in when and if we find them.  If you believe things will return to the way they once were before any of this happened, you can think again.  Nothing will be the same, even if the X-Men were reunited once more.  _Everything_ has changed - not just superficially, but _profoundly_.  It isn't just our lifestyles that have been transformed, or our so-called inviolable rights as human beings.  It's our way of thinking, Rogue, our ideologies, our convictions, our beliefs.  Five years ago, neither of us would have thought we would be fighting on the side of the Brotherhood.  Yet see what oppression has necessitated in us.  We've had to reassess our morals, restructure our entire belief system in order to be 'free' once more.  We've had to make sacrifices that, only a few years ago, we would've died rather than make.”

            She gazed down into her palms.

            “You can say that again…” she whispered bitterly.  Still, it was something of a comfort to hear him speak like this, to know that she was not the only one who had felt uneasy 'defecting'.  What would have been totally unacceptable a relatively short while ago was now par for the course, and simply because mutant life had been so devalued that even crime and murder was a means to an end, a means to equality.  It was ironic, paradoxical, almost hypocritical, but she saw now that it was either live this way, be downtrodden, or dead.

            For the next couple of minutes, she continued to observe his work as he made some additions to the circuit board.  His movements were so fast she could barely keep up with his progress, let alone understand what he was making.

            It was an effort to get the next question out, but it had been plaguing her for so long now that she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

            “Do you… do you miss Storm?” she blurted uncertainly.  He actually paused then, for the first time; she saw his hand tremble.

            “Every day,” he returned quietly.  Before she knew it, he was at work again, but his jaw was taut, and the line of his mouth was bitter.

            “Ah'm sorry, Ah didn't mean --” she hastened, but he interrupted her quickly.

            “There's no need to apologise.  You asked a question in good faith.  I replied honestly.” He paused again, and this time he looked up and directly at her. “I do miss her, Rogue.  Every day. But she is there, and that's what matters.  Not merely as a memory, but as a continuing constant in my life.  I see her in the sunshine, I feel her in the wind, and I taste her in the rain.  When I leave this workshop, when I go outside and walk the land, I miss her a little less.” He smiled, lopsided. “She was my Windrider, and I was her Maker.  It is for her that I still make, even though there is very little left to make that can give me any satisfaction.”

            So saying, he went back to his task, his demeanour calm and stolid as ever.  It had always made him seem mysterious to her, but it was only now that Rogue realised that it was not so much an air of mystery as temperance towards the world and everything in it.

            “Ah envy you,” she stated softly. “Bein' able t' do that… See the one you love, in so many different things… Ah wish… Ah wish that Ah could do the same.”

            “And who do _you_ miss?” he asked lightly. “Gambit?”

            The words were natural, uncontrived, and yet they startled her for their unexpected closeness to the truth.

            “Gambit?” she repeated on a breath.

            “You were close to him,” he observed. “Weren't you?”

            “Ah… No, Ah wasn’t… Ah never really knew a thing about him.  We only knew each other for a year.  He never told me anythin' about himself.”

            “Being close to someone doesn’t always mean you know them,” he remarked softly. “Especially someone like him.” He laughed. “It's funny - I always used to get jealous of the way he used to hang around Ororo, but now that I think about it, the way he used to look at you… It was always so obvious that it was _you_ he was interested in.”

            He had finished modifying the circuit board, and was covering it again with the two black beetle wings.

            “Yah think?” she whispered.

            “You mean you're going to pretend that there wasn’t anything between the two of you?” he commented sardonically.

            “There wasn’t.  Not really.  We kinda liked each other, for a while.  At least, Ah liked him.”

            _Not that it matters anymore.  Ah'm probably never gonna see him again…_

            “And you think he didn’t like you?”

            She gazed down at the floor. “Ah don’t know.  He always made me feel special; but then, Ah guess he made a lot of women feel special.” Why was she speaking like this?  Why was she pushing him away, even in memory?  She bit her lip and continued. “But… those few times when Ah was with him…when Ah was close to him… Ah guess you could say they were the happiest moments of my life.” She paused, finally making up her mind. “Yeah - Ah miss him.”

            Forge set aside his work slowly and looked at her.  There was nothing between them now.

            “It hurts,” he stated softly, knowingly.

            She swallowed, nodded.

            “Ah was never that close to anyone else, not in the way Ah was close to him.  Ah haven't been that close to anyone else since.  Ah guess you could say that hurts.”

            His expression was sympathetic.  In his eyes, she was a girl that had never known real closeness - she had never been able to touch, and by the time she had, it had been too late to be close to anyone anymore.

            “Mystique did you a disservice,” he muttered, his eyes distant. “When you first came to us, when she first decided to recruit you as a full-time member of the Brotherhood, I didn’t want her to do it.  You were too young, too innocent.” His gaze returned to rest on her fully. “Believe me, Rogue, when I say that.  I saw what Mystique did, the way she tried to twist the death of the X-Men into an excuse for revenge.  She shouldn’t have done that.”

            “She did what she thought was right,” Rogue murmured.

            “Perhaps she did.  But you were still young, still immature.  And when you woke up from that coma, your mind wasn’t right.”

            “What are you tryin' to say?” she whispered. “That Ah was crazy?  That Ah still am?”

            “No,” he replied patiently. “Merely that you're still mourning, not only for _them_ , but for yourself.” She stared at him sharply, surprised. “Rogue, I saw how things were for you that last year before Xavier was killed,” he continued soberly. “Suddenly, someone wanted a part of your life, and for the first time you were learning to share it.  You were becoming a woman, you were learning to care for someone.  None of us had ever seen you looking so happy.  To have that so cruelly cut short --”

            “Ah didn’t love him,” she interrupted in a whisper, looking away. “Not back then.”

            “Perhaps.  But who's to say what the two of you could have been, given time?  Who's to say what Ororo and I could have been?” he added, and for the first time his voice and eyes were wistful.

            Rogue sat silent.  Who indeed?  If that one fateful day had never occurred, if Xavier's death had been wiped from history, how then would have things turned out for her?  Could it be possible that she could ever have loved _him_ , that he could have loved her back, had they been given the time?

            _But we_ did _have the time.  We had the chance, and we blew it.  He made it clear he didn’t love me, that he could never love me, whatever the past between us…_

            Whatever more could have been said was cut off by a sudden, terse knock at the door; before Forge had time to reply, Mystique had already let herself in.

            “Ah, there you are,” she said, when she saw Rogue sitting there on her stool. “I thought you might be down here.”

            There was that same purposeful glimmer in Mystique's eyes that told Rogue she meant business.

            “What's wrong?” she asked.

            “I need you for a new mission, Rogue,” Raven said grimly. “A very significant one.  If you could join me in my office when you're ready?”

            She merely nodded in reply.

            “Good,” was all Raven said, before striding out once more.

            There was a long silence.

            “You should go see her,” Forge commented absently; when Rogue looked back he was already working on the black box again. “I think it's important.”

 -oOo-

            The sunlight that flooded Raven's office was always the colour of sour milk.  Rogue never enjoyed coming here - there was never anything Raven had to say to her that brought her any joy.  Nevertheless she sat across from Mystique's desk, unable to hide her curiosity.  Forge's words had piqued her interest - he always knew about potential missions long before any of the others did, since he was the one who had to rustle up their equipment in advance.  Still, her curiosity couldn’t quite hide her sense of dread.

            This was because, over the past two years, Rogue had gone from being one of Raven's minor operatives to one of her most invaluable ones - ever since the Art Rogers affair, Mystique considered Rogue to have proven herself in a way St. John, Dominic, and Forge had not.  It wasn’t a distinction Rogue cherished, but it made her feel good to know that in a perverse way, she was talented at _something_.  Of course, not all this adulation was warranted.  What had sealed the deal for Mystique was the fact that Rogue had killed Kincaid a year ago.

            And of course, that had been Remy's act entirely.

            Rogue would have had no problem in admitting that she was not, in fact, Kincaid's executioner.  The reason why she'd taken the credit was because she didn’t want to inform Raven of Remy's existence in her life.  As far as Rogue was concerned, what she shared with Remy was her business and no one else's.  That was why, the morning after he had killed Kincaid, she had gone home, walked right into Mystique's office and effectively taken the murder on her own shoulders.

            She'd laid the gun on Mystique's desk, and announced: “It's done.”

            Raven had said nothing, but had calmly taken the gun, checked the amount of bullets left in the magazine, placed it back down again, and looked up at her foster-daughter.

            “Well done,” was all she'd said, as if congratulating her for some mundane, everyday task.

            After that, Rogue had suddenly found she enjoyed the dubious distinction of being completely in Mystique's trust.

           

            Now Mystique was sitting in that sour shaft of sunlight, staring at Rogue over the desk, studying her face with cold, clear eyes, just as she had done the day Rogue had laid that gun on that very table and declared: “It's done.”  She often did this, she often watched.

            And Rogue, more often that not, remained silent.

            “I've been thinking,” Raven announced at last.

            Rogue merely raised a questioning eyebrow.

            “I've been thinking a great deal about what you told me,” Raven continued, unfazed. “That some of the X-Men survived the attack on the mansion.  I've been thinking that perhaps we should try and release some of them.”

            Silence.  The old grandfather clock that Forge had so lovingly restored the very day they'd laid claim to this place ticked away patiently in the corner.  Rogue's brow furrowed.  She hadn't been expecting this.

            “Of course, there was no love lost between the Brotherhood and the X-Men,” Raven continued expressionlessly. “But now that Xavier is dead, and now that you and Forge are amongst our number, perhaps we can all get along, so to speak.  There are certain of the X-Men whose abilities would suit our cause well.”

            Rogue linked her fingers together, laid them in her lap, waited.

            “Naturally,” Mystique stated, “there is the problem that we have little or no idea where the X-Men are located, or who of their number - apart from you and Forge, of course - are still alive.”

            “Hasn't Irene seen or predicted any of this?” Rogue questioned at last.

            “Irene's visions have picked up on certain of the X-Men,” Raven nodded keenly. “Ororo Munroe, for instance.  And Wolverine.” Her voice was laced with distaste as she said the name.

            “Logan's still alive?” Rogue whispered half to herself.  That fact alone gave rise to a real, powerful sense of hope in her.  Wherever Logan was, he was always best at staying alive.

            “It would appear so,” Mystique's smile was twisted coldly. “But unfortunately, Irene's visions give little in the way of location.”

            “So how would we find them?” Rogue asked.

            “There is a way.” Mystique's smile was glacial as a Siberian winter. “Trask Technologies' database.”

            This suggestion surprised Rogue more than anything that had come before.  She stared.

            “You want me to break into Trask Technologies?”

            Raven laughed.

            “Such a thing, darling, would be nothing short of suicide.  No - _that_ particular part of the mission will be left to me.  There is a simpler job for _you_ to do.”

            She opened her desk drawer, pulled out something, and slid it across the table towards Rogue.  Rogue looked at it.  It was a photograph, shimmering coldly in the sunlight; when she moved slightly, she saw that it bore the face of a man.  He was young, probably about thirty, blond-haired, blue-eyed, handsome - and giving the impression that he knew it.

            “His name is Troy Rifkind,” Raven told her, business-like. “Assistant Director of Trask Technologies.  Quite a prodigy, they say - he has made his way up the ranks within a relatively short number of years.  Fortunately he has a weakness that we can exploit.” She paused and Rogue looked up into those chill, blue eyes, a chill of another kind filling her heart… “He has a certain predilection for pretty young women.  Blondes, brunettes, redheads… any type will do.”

            No more words needed to be said.  Rogue picked up the photo, sat back in her chair, and studied the face.  The good-looking, angular features, the conceited smile.  This was a face that had known no pain, no anguish.  A face that had encountered no loss.  This was the countenance of a person from another world, the world she had left behind so long ago, that she would never be able to return to.  His was the face of someone who had taken that world away from her.

            Even from that small sliver of glossy paper, she knew she hated him.

            She threw the photo back down on the desk.

            “Do you want me to kill him?” she inquired, ice in her throat.

            “No,” Mystique replied. “That would be too risky, would draw too much attention.  To kill him would be superfluous.” She stood, walked about the table, stopped beside Rogue, and looked at her; reaching out a hand, she touched her cheek with an almost motherly touch, her cold, grey eyes suddenly tender.

            “But you may kill him, in a way,” she said, silky soft. “Tempt him, tease him, destroy him, impale him upon his own ego.  You are my Siren, Rogue; you are my _belle dame sans merci_. I knew God could not have made you so beautiful for nothing, my daughter.”

            The ice in Rogue's throat remained lodged there.  From beginning to end, what she possessed, what she had been given… she knew with a stark certainty that God had had very little indeed to do with it.

 -oOo-

            “So tell me, Rogue.  What do you think is worse?  Doing Troy Rifkind, or offing Kincaid?”

            She was in the kitchen, standing by the window and drinking juice, going over Mystique's extensive briefing in her head, psyching herself up for the upcoming mission.  St. John wasn’t helping - but then, he never did.  He was behind her, picking up Rifkind's photo from the dinner table and perusing it with a sinister smile on his face.  It was a look that didn’t concern Rogue unduly.  St. John often went around looking faintly sinister.

            “Personally, I would've thought Kincaid,” he remarked flippantly over her shoulder, “But, y'know, now that I think about it, I don't really know what it's like for you Sheilas when you do all that seedy femme fatale stuff.  Mind you, that Rifkind ain't a bad-lookin' bloke, is he?”

            Rogue stared out onto the narrow, weed-covered alley, the wall of irregular, brown stone that hemmed them in below ground level.  She was used to Pyro's jibes, they didn’t faze her.

            “That doesn’t make it any easier,” she told him quietly.

            “What?” he snorted gracelessly. “So you'd rather off Kincaid again than screw some playboy with a face to boot?”

            Rogue said nothing.

            She'd forgotten about Kincaid - sometimes, it was hard to believe that he was dead.  Memory was a funny thing - what had seemed so vivid and detailed only a few months ago faded with the greatest alacrity, especially in a world so reliant on the media and printed matter to spread the word.

            What was not recorded could, technically, never have existed.

            Out of sight, out of mind.

            In the space of a year, Kincaid had become just another statistic.  After the furore over his murder - which had been splashed liberally all over the news - he had simply _become_ forgotten; he was just never mentioned anymore.  He was replaced, the Friends of Humanity went on, the same old anti-mutant rhetoric continued. When so little had been changed by his death, Rogue had wondered why Raven and Irene had deemed it so important to have him eliminated in the first place.  But after a while, even these questions were forgotten, as she was slowly re-submerged into the cruel monotony of everyday life.  For long stretches of time, she could believe it was as though he had never existed - that is, until he would slip, revenant-like, into her nightmares, and taunt her into wakefulness.  Then she would be reminded that, however much the world chose to ignore him, as long as she lived he would exist in her mind.  Until then, he would never truly be dead.

            She would dream often of Remy too - he occupied both her dreams and her nightmares in equal measure.  True to his word, over the span of a year he had never made an appearance, but that was not entirely a bad thing.  While she pined for the comfort he gave her, she was also troubled by what he had done to Kincaid.  The look on his face as he had shot the man still plagued her, still thrilled her.

            Sometimes she would touch herself in the night and think of him, she'd torture her body with the sweet caresses he'd once tortured her with, she'd torture herself to orgasm with his memory, but it would never feel complete without him; she would always be empty, no matter how hard she tried or how hard she came.

            Because she still saw him everywhere she went, even if he was never consciously at the front of her mind - just like she could see him now, staring back at her through that dirty windowpane with those dark, red eyes of his.

            “Aw, c'mon, Roguey,” St. John whined. “This job's gonna be a breeze, you know it.  You get to dress up pretty, you get to book in at the Ritz, you even get to cosy up to one of New York's most eligible bachelors.  Fuck, even Dom and I are jealous!”

            He was starting to annoy her now.

            “Then why the fuck don’t you or Dom do it?” she hissed at him, swinging away from the eyes in the window and sneering at him. “If yah think it's so fuckin' easy, why don’t you try fuckin' someone yah don’t know!”

            He grinned.  He always found it amusing when she got angry.

            “I could fuck any strange girl any time of the day,” he commented candidly and she snarled, set her glass back down on the table with a sharp _thud_.

            “You don’t get it, do you!” she seethed. “What it is we haveta sacrifice, what it feels like for _us_.  You men, y'all could do it with _anyone_ and it wouldn’t mean a _thing_ to you, would it?!  Well, it means somethin' to _me_!  It means somethin' to me when Ah know you're runnin' around like yah don’t care, when you fuck all those other women and still have the nerve to come back and say that emotion is stupid and useless and --!”

            She stopped mid-sentence, inwardly fuming, knowing she'd said too much, but Pyro merely put his hands up in self-defence, his eyes wide.

            “Strewth, Rogue, simmer down girl!  Why the hell are you takin' this so personally?!  I was only kiddin' with you!  And anyway, I didn’t know you were so bothered that I was seeing anyone else… I didn’t even know you _liked_ me… Fuck, if you're so bothered, all you have to do is say the word and we can get together sometime…”

            “Ugh, _please_ ,” she spat in disgust. “ _Like_ you?  St. John, Ah _hate_ you.  But you're right.  Fuckin' someone is easy, it doesn’t mean a thing, and just for once…” she lowered her voice to barely a whisper, “Just for once, Ah'd like for it to matter.  Ah'd give anythin' for it to matter.” She paused; a cold laugh suddenly escaped from her lips. “But who am Ah kiddin'?  Ah've never been with anybody who gave a shit about any of this.  Ah never will.”

            She walked to the door, still feeling the eyes in the window watching her, the eyes that her outburst had been directed at. She opened the door.

            “Well, if you ever _wanted_ anybody…” Pyro suggested in a wheedling tone from the kitchen table.

            She slammed the door shut behind her.

 -oOo-

            New York, London, Tokyo, Sydney, Rome, Paris.

            The clocks behind the reception desk each told a different time.

            Rogue looked up over the empty, fair head of the check-in girl, at the New York clock that read 7:03 p.m.  Beside her, a stout, sweaty businessman with skin the consistency of suet was studying the Tokyo clock, checking the time against the 'To Do' list on his high-tech cell phone.  She had the vague feeling that time had absolutely no meaning whatsoever, and that if anyone decided it was 6:47 a.m. in Timbuktu right now, it would actually be of negligible significance.  The core fact still remained - somewhere, in another place and far out of sight, the one you loved would still be under the same sky, the same stars, the same moon - and it would still be the same time, no matter what you happened to call it.

            “Ms. Wagner?” The blonde-haired receptionist's voice held the sickly sweet quality of treacle. “Your room is ready.  Number 622.  Here is your key.”

            She slid a keycard over the desk and Rogue reluctantly moved her eyes from the clocks, slid the card towards her and slipped it into her purse.  The receptionist smiled.  Her face gave the peculiar impression of belonging to a marionette.

            “If you'd like to order dinner from the menu,” she beamed, “we can place your order now and have it brought to your room by 7:30.”

            “No thanks,” Rogue murmured, staring at the clock again.  She wouldn’t be eating here anyway.

            “Very well, then,” the woman smiled. “Enjoy your stay, and if you have any queries, please feel free to ask at reception anytime.”

            “Thanks,” Rogue muttered, turned and left.

           

            She was not here for pleasure, or even for business in the normal sense; and yet she could not help but admire the opulence and grandeur of the Ritz as she crossed the lobby and stepped into the streamlined glass elevators.  As luck would have it, she was sharing the lift with a young couple who pawed each other all the way up to their floor - the man, however, kept glancing at her over his girlfriend's shoulder, and after a while, irritated, Rogue turned away and glanced out of the window onto the lobby below.  Behind the reception desk, the clocks were still heedlessly, needlessly ticking away.

            The couple got off on the fifth floor, for which Rogue was thankful for more than just one reason - the less people that saw her and knew where she was staying the better.  Her room was a relatively functional one, compared to many rooms in the Ritz, but none of this mattered to her.  When she entered, she didn’t waste time appreciating either the view or the surroundings.  Instead she went straight to the bed, dumped her carryall on it, and unzipped it.  There was only one thing inside - the outfit she'd bought especially for the occasion.  Unhurried and methodical, she unpacked each item from the bag - dress, stockings and sandals - and laid them out on the bed.  Then she stepped out of the mundane civilian clothing she'd chosen to wear, and placed all these in the carryall instead.  Having done this, she folded the bag, and placed it in the wastebasket.  By tomorrow it'd be taken out with the rest of the trash, and she would be long gone.

            Calm, collected, she pulled on the stockings, slipped on the dress, and put on the sandals.  Then she went to the mirror, opened up her purse, and took out her makeup.  She rouged her cheeks, reddened her lips, mascared and kohled her eyes.  When she stood in front of the full-length mirror, she didn’t recognise herself.  She looked classy, she looked elegant, she looked like all the classic Hollywood starlets that had occupied every movie she'd ever worshiped as a child.  Rita Hayworth, Greta Garbo, Elizabeth Taylor.  Sirens of a bygone era, an era she couldn’t even touch anymore.

            Maybe time did have its own significance after all.

            Rogue ran a hand over the front of her dress contemplatively.  It was a dress Mystique had chosen - a strapless, satin sheath dress of dark green that complemented the colour of her eyes, that clung to her figure in all the right places, that gave her an equal amount of sex appeal and sophistication.  She looked beautiful.  And it was dangerous, dangerous for her to see this side of herself, to see the woman she could have become if things had not gone so terribly wrong.

            It was ironic - if this was another time and another place, she'd be dressed like this for a man she cared about.  And now, in _this_ time, in _this_ place, her appearance was nothing more than a cynical ploy to seduce a man she had never met before.

            There was no time, no reason left to sigh.  There was not even any regret on her face as she turned away from her reflection, her green eyes hard.

            _There can be no emotion, there can be no feeling._

 _If we allow ourselves to feel, then we might as well die._        

 

            She switched off the light to her room, leaving it as cold and untouched as it had been when she'd first entered it.  In the space of time that it took her to change into the sexy green dress, she had become a different person, a woman who made the journey to the bar down on the first floor with a confident, sassy swing in her step.  She was the old Rogue, teasing men, making them turn their heads as she walked past them, making them hold their breaths and stare at her, making them lust after her.  Yet, unlike the old Rogue, she promised sex to them with every iota of her body, she didn’t just dangle it in front of their faces.  She was experienced, self-possessed, she was a femme fatale.

            She sashayed through the double doors at the back of the lobby and into the bar.  It was sleek and ultra-modern, all streamlined chrome and curvy glass, liberally highlighted with panels of black and white marble. At present it was relatively empty, since most people would be eating dinner.  That was good.  That meant that there was less people to distract, and less people to distract her target.  She took her place at the bar and ordered a cocktail before taking time to scan the room.

            It didn't take long to find Troy Rifkind, who was sitting in a corner sandwiched between two busty, fawning blondes, while three men, obviously his sycophants, hovered nearby.  She was a little surprised to find that he was more handsome than his picture had suggested - his face was chiselled and clean-shaven, though a little too perfect for her taste; his hair a sandy blond, his mouth full and passionate.  He had impeccable dress sense, wearing a well-cut, gunmetal grey Gucci suit and a purple dress shirt.  No doubt he was well-moneyed and well-connected, though she suspected he lavished most of his salary on clothes, parties, wine, women, and, according to her file, drugs.

            Here was the man she had to seduce, the man that St. John had mockingly insinuated should make her job easy this time round.  If she had been a different person, maybe she would have agreed. Rifkind was young, he was attractive, he even looked quite open and friendly.

            But she still had to whore herself to him, she still had to give herself unwillingly to him, and somehow, when she looked across that room at him, she knew that he wouldn't refuse her advances.

           

            Her drink had arrived.  She sipped at it half-heartedly, knowing to get intoxicated would be fatal to the mission.  She had to go into this clear-headed, much as she would have preferred to do this drunk and not remember it the next morning.  Her priority was to make contact, and since his sycophants were buying all the drinks for him, she wasn't going to get any closer to him at the bar.  She had to think of another line of attack.  She continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye, seeing him chat with the blondes, grope them, kiss them.  They flirted and giggled a lot, fondled him back.  Rogue knew she was going to have to do a lot to get him to avert his attention from them to her.  Good-looking men were harder to ensnare than ordinary-looking men - they were used to having beautiful women around them, finding another one didn't matter so much.  She had to have something better than all those other women had, and over the months, Rogue had found she possessed a weapon not many other women possessed - mystique.

            Tonight, it was a weapon she would have to exercise to her utmost.

            She began to watch the small group more overtly, studying his smile, his laugh, what he enjoyed, what he responded to.  And then, the moment came, quite by chance.  Suddenly he looked up, towards the bar, straight at her.  Instinctively she knew it was an opportunity not to be missed; she knew exactly what to do.  She simply stared back at him, holding his blue-eyed gaze, not once wavering.

            He was the one to break eye contact first, and when he turned back to the blonde on his right, there was a small frown on his face.

            She swivelled round in her seat, turning her back on him.  She knew the contract had been sealed in that one gaze, she knew now that he would be hers.

            It was a couple of minutes later that she felt someone sidle up beside her, and she tilted her head slightly, expecting him; but somewhat to her surprise she saw one of his flunkeys standing beside her, his face utterly devoid of expression.

            “Excuse me, ma'am,” his voice was oddly toneless, “but I’ve been obliged to ask if you would join Mr. Rifkind at his table.” He indicated towards the corner table, to Rifkind who was still sandwiched between the blondes, but whose eyes were now totally focused on her.  She darted her eyes back to the expressionless flunkey, who was now holding out Rifkind's card to her.  She took it, perfunctorily, gave it a cursory glance.  There, on glossy cream paper, was his name, embossed in elegant gold calligraphy. 'Assistant Director, Trask Technologies Inc.' it read in the corner. “He wishes to have the pleasure of your company,” the man added by way of explanation.

            This was not what she wanted.  She had no intention of joining him on the couch with his dumb blondes, her every move watched by his yes-men.  She needed to come into contact with as few people as possible.  She needed him to come to _her_.

            With an apologetic expression, Rogue handed the card back.

            “Ah'm terribly sorry,” she returned, exaggerating her Southern accent just enough for the sex appeal effect. “But Ah've made a prior engagement and Ah'm waitin' for someone.  But please could you thank Mr. Rifkind for his kind invitation.”

            The man neither spoke nor smiled, but inclined his head briefly, took the card and walked back.  Rogue watched him depart, casting a glance over at Rifkind, who was frowning even more deeply than before.  She turned a little, continuing to watch the scene from the corner of her eye as the flunkey bent over beside his superior, murmuring softly in his ear.  Rifkind was staring at her, his expression now intense.  Rogue quickly turned back to the bar.  She'd seen enough, enough to know he was now completely under her sway.  Despite everything, a shot of triumph coursed through her.

            She was not surprised when, a couple of moments later Troy Rifkind himself appeared beside her.

            “May I buy you another drink?” he asked casually, without greeting, without any other introduction.  His tone, though suave, was polite, very polite - despite the fact that she didn't believe for a second that he'd been using the same tone with the blondes back at his table.  She looked up at him, searched his face as if seeing him for the first time.  He was handsomer up close, she decided.  She smiled, a small, slight smile.

            “Sure.”

            Instantly he clicked his fingers, alerting the barman - he pointed to her cocktail glass, then ordered a vodka on the rocks, and while the bartender was mixing their drinks, he turned to her with a courteous smile and said: “Perhaps I should introduce myself.  I'm Troy Rifkind, Assistant Director at Trask Technologies.  You spoke to my man just a minute ago-” he pointed to the table in the corner, where she was interested to notice the blondes were no longer sitting, and where the three flunkeys were now dawdling, looking rather out of their collective depth “-but it seems you were otherwise occupied, Miss…”

            She didn't even hesitate.

            “Anna.  Anna Wagner.”

            “Miss. Wagner.” He smiled, offered his hand, and she shook it.  At this point the bartender arrived with their drinks, and Rifkind made a point of tipping very generously indeed.  When he had done this he turned back to her.

            “Miss. Wagner,” he began in a very serious tone, “my man informed me that you're waiting for someone.  I'd like to apologise if my invitation a little while ago offended you.”

            She found his conversation quite charming, and if she had been any other woman she might have been captivated by his sophistication and turn of phrase, but instead she felt nothing but a cold sense of detachment towards this spoilt, rich and handsome playboy.

            “Not at all.” She gave a low, brief laugh. “Ah was quite flattered by your invitation, Mr. Rifkind -”

            “Troy,” he interrupted her in a soft, intimate undertone.

            “-Troy,” she allowed herself to be corrected. “But Ah've already made plans t' meet somebody t'night.” She made a point of looking at her watch then, an absent look on her face.  He saw the action, commented sympathetically:

            “It seems your date is a little late, Miss. Wagner.”

            She met his gaze, frowning slightly. “We did make arrangements to meet at seven,” she explained, “but it seems Ah might have been stood up.”

            He smiled, raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me for being so bold, but any man willing to leave a woman as beautiful as yourself unattended must be a fool.”

            She averted her eyes, suddenly coquettish, allowing herself to blush.

            “It's very kind of you t' say so, Mr. Rifkind -- Troy --” she returned in her best magnolias accent, “but Ah'm a little afraid Ah must've deserved it.  Y' see, Ah'm kinda new in town and Ah didn't really know mah way around… And this man Ah met at the gas station was kind enough to point out directions towards the hotel, and asked meh whether Ah'd like for him t' come up and see meh, and like a fool Ah said yes… Ah've made such an idiot of myself by acceptin' his offer…”

            She paused and stared up at him, seeing the subtle change in his expression, the spark of lustful interest now in his eyes.  She'd given him exactly the kind of story he needed to hear - a woman who was new in town, out all by herself, willing to invite a man she didn't even know into her space - suddenly the exaggerated courtesy had gone out of him, though the charming politeness remained.  He leaned in a little closer, took the liberty of brushing a stray lock of white hair from her face - which she let him do - and smiled at her.

            “ _He's_ the fool,” he assured her in a low, seductive tone.

            Inside her heart had grown a little colder, but she ignored it the way Mystique had taught her to and smiled.

            “You're too kind, Troy,” she murmured, making her voice as low and seductive as he had.  He waved a hand, brushing aside her thanks, and sipped from his glass, never taking his eyes off hers.  Then he set the glass back down on the bar and addressed her once more.

            “So, Anna… May I call you Anna?” (She nodded) “You're new in town.  Let me guess.  You're from the South?”

            As if he couldn't tell.  Still she smiled.

            “Mississippi.”

            His smile widened.

            “I just love Southern girls.  So fiery, so passionate - if you don't mind me saying so, Anna.”

            She could somehow tell that the conversation was going to degenerate from here on in.

            “Ah don't mind.  Ah just love Yankee men - so cultured and refined…”

            They both laughed.  He hadn't even noticed that she hadn't touched her drink.  Afterwards they spent a few moments in silence, and she thought she could afford to take a single sip from her glass.  He watched her while she did so, and then asked quickly, in a different tone of voice: “Anna…Perhaps you'd like to continue waiting for your date at my table?”

            This time she agreed without any further prompting.  He helped her off her barstool in a display of gentlemanly extravagance, then led her to his table, which was now devoid of blonde bimbos.  She settled in next to him on the couch, ignoring the three underlings that still skulked around the table; for the next half an hour or so, she chatted to Rifkind about various unimportant things, who offered intelligent enough conversation - he paused only halfway through to send his three sycophants away, and they dispersed a little resentfully, leaving Rogue alone with her quarry.

            Finally, she was in a situation to completely hold the upper hand.  With his bodyguards gone, it was imperative she push forward with the mission.  She had no doubt that Rifkind was by now completely in her thrall.  His eyes never left her, not even when other tempting morsels presented themselves in the form of other pretty girls who passed his table.  Rogue batted her eyelids, toyed with her hair and showed as much cleavage as she could.  By the time eight O'clock had come round, it finally became clear to Rifkind that her so-called date had no intention of showing up.  At this point, the conversation became more suggestive, and she wasn't surprised to feel him surreptitiously move a hand to rest upon her knee.

            Rogue was repulsed by his touch, but made no effort to stop him.  On the contrary, this was the action she had been waiting for.  They continued to talk, and with every minute his hand rode higher, and she continued to make no protest.  By now his hand was almost caressing the top of her stocking, and she was getting impatient, not knowing what was taking him so long.  It seemed she had gone through an extraordinarily long ordeal before he finally murmured in her ear: “Why don't I show you my room?  It's got a great view of the city, I could show you some of the sights.”

            Smooth, she thought sardonically to herself.  Very smooth.  The look she gave him from beneath her lashes was knowing, smouldering as she answered in a soft, coy voice: “Okay.”

 -oOo-

            Naturally his room was the penthouse suite, and she had to endure the longest elevator ride of petting and pawing before she finally got to her destination.  The view from the room was indeed magnificent - the room itself would have been a sight to see, if she'd even got the chance to see it at all.  The moment the door had closed behind them he'd pinned her up against it, invading her mouth in a rough kiss that had made her instinctively want to gag - somehow she managed to kiss him back with as much fervour as she could muster.  His kiss was a form of attack, oddly inelegant compared with his so-far exquisite manners - she didn't like it, found it repellent.  She would have to slow him down, otherwise she'd end up pushing him away and ruining the whole mission.  Softly, gently as she could she cupped his face in her palms, massaged the back of his head with her fingers, hoping to ease him, calm him down.  It worked.  He slowed a little, and she encouraged him, changing the kiss, brushing her tongue against his, trying to get him to mimic her.  He cottoned on, and now that the kiss was more bearable she could get to work on other things.

            Reaching downward she found his crotch, rubbed him experimentally, feeling him moan into their kiss.  He was already partly aroused.  Hopefully this wouldn't take longer than it had to.

            While his kiss left something to be desired, she had to admit that he was rather artful in his caresses.  His left hand was underneath her dress, running over her thighs and buttocks with a pleasurable cadence.  She tried to focus on this, rubbing her body against his with the same slow rhythm; thankfully at this point he stopped kissing her, leaving her lips to concentrate on her neck, her shoulders.  She came up for some much-needed air, taking long slow lungfuls, her expression set, determined.  Despite her disgust, despite her dislike of this man, she felt her body begin to respond to him - she hated it when she became truly aroused, but she had to accept that sometimes it would happen and she would have to live with it.  His fingers had already reached the waistband of her panties and she knew what he would do next.  She felt his finger slip in under the lacy material, and was surprised by her own reaction when he tested her flesh.  She couldn't help the short, sharp gasp that came from between her lips, betraying her. She instantly regretted it when he surfaced once more, smiling - a second later, he was kissing her again.

            She needed to get him to the bed and get this over and done with.  She desperately needed it.  This was taking far too long.  At the end of her tether, she pulled away from his kiss, grasped his face with her hands, keeping him away from further kisses and whispered: “Let's get to it, sugah, Ah can't wait…”

            His grin was enough to tell her he thoroughly agreed.

            He pushed himself away from the door and walked towards the bed, taking his clothes off as he went.  She followed him, quickly slipping out of her dress, her underwear and stockings.  He was still undressing when she lay on the bed, naked; he hurried up when he saw she was already waiting for him, and when he was finally unclothed he joined her on the bed with gleeful impatience.

            She'd been with many men who found her body somehow exotic.  Rifkind was no exception.  He took a long time studying her and running his hands over her - there was a light in his eyes while he did this, lust, yet something more.  Again she made no move to push him away, accepting everything he did to her, letting him touch her all over.  At last she felt the weight of him on her and she closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face up close; he kissed her mouth, and then her breasts, and then between kisses he declared: “Anna… you're so beautiful…”

            The words made her detest him all the more.  He had no right to think her beautiful - she didn't want him to think her beautiful.  There was only one man who'd ever told her she was beautiful, and she had wanted him to be the only one to say that; she had wanted the words, the thought, to belong only to _him_ …

            But Rifkind was gentle with her, almost worshipful - and yet his attentiveness was even more repulsive to her.  She wanted this to be as quick and painless as possible.  Anything more was a parody of lovemaking, and she didn't want it.  But he was being too deferential, too delicate with her body, and she couldn't stop him without risking the mission.  He was lavishing kisses all over her, making her body turn cold, and suddenly his lips were on her inner thighs and she knew, she knew…

            She tensed, her body freezing when he put his mouth on her core - until that moment nothing in her life had horrified her more.  Somehow this was worse, than anything else he could have done to her; it was an invasion, it was too intimate, and suddenly she wanted more than anything to push him away from her; but somehow she found the strength to grit her teeth and hold on, hold on…  Nevertheless, he was good at this, too good - again she felt herself becoming aroused despite herself, and her breath was coming hard, fast…  She tried vainly to hold the tide back, to ignore the tongue of flame growing steadily inside her, but involuntarily her hand suddenly moved to his head, to press him against her, and in that one traitorous act of self-betrayal a kind of cold agony washed over her, an anguish she'd never felt before, because she _couldn't_ give him her pleasure, she couldn't give him her orgasm, she couldn't give him that secret, sacred part of her, because he didn't deserve it… because no one did but _him_ …

            She felt it, pressing against the dam, _heaving_ against it, and all the will in the world couldn't push it back.  She was powerless to stop it.  The next moment the orgasm had taken her, ripped her away on its tide, and when she cried out it was not a cry of ecstasy but of resignation, of defeat, of pure, all-consuming anguish.

-oOo-


	13. Lovers & Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue and Remy unwittingly forge a closer bond after a passionate, torrid night together.

            She awoke later after a brief nap to find Rifkind still sleeping in the bed beside her.  It was only then, alone in the bedroom with not another living soul to bear witness, that she showed any open sign of disgust and repulsion.  She lay there, staring at the handsome young director for a long while with an ugly look etched onto her beautiful face.

            In truth she had no reason to hate him - he hadn't beaten her, he hadn't humiliated or degraded her - but the fact that she had had to seek him out, that she had been forced to sleep with him out of nothing but mere convenience, and that he had accepted her tawdry seduction at all was enough to make her hate him.  Yet even this she could have forgiven, if he had not invaded her in a way none of her previous quarries had ever invaded her before.  He had done the very thing he had no right to do - he'd made her lose control of her body.  For the first time she really, truly wanted to _kill_ him, as if by killing him she could steal back what he'd stolen from her, the one thing she'd saved and set aside for the man she loved.  But it was impossible.  Done.  Over.  She'd never get it back.  It was useless, pointless to dwell on it - that's what Raven would tell her.  Sometimes it happened.  Live with it.  Deal with it.  Move on.

            Easier said than done.

            Lying there in that hotel bed she felt dirty, damaged beyond repair, and she wanted nothing more than to step into the shower next door and scrub him off her; but there was no time.  She must work with all the swiftness Mystique had impressed upon her.  She must complete her mission.

            Each movement made her body ache with a dull throb, but she put this firmly at the back of her mind, slowly rolling out of bed, making sure not to jar it and wake Rifkind up.  Silently she slipped back into her underwear and her dress.  Then, quiet as a ghost, she crossed the room on tiptoe, went to his jacket (that still lay haphazard on the floor), and rifled through the pockets.  The outer ones were clean except for his cell phone, his wallet and his keys.  But inside the inner breast pocket she found it.  The keycard, that one thin sliver of plastic she'd given away so much for. 

            She didn't have time to contemplate the irony of it.  Bending down, she pulled back the hem of her dress and carefully picked at the threads.  Once undone, she produced a new, blank card, plain, unmarked.  Then she searched in her purse, opened up a secret compartment inside the lining, and slipped out a small black box - the card-swiper Forge had manufactured.  Quickly, delicately, she swiped Rifkind's card through the small device; then having pressed a small button on the side, at which a red light on the device flashed once, she swiped her own blank card into it.  The red light blinked green, signalling that the data within had been copied.  Silently, she slipped the device back into her purse, then slid the master card back into Rifkind's jacket pocket.  All that was left was the duplicate card she'd made, the one that would gain Mystique entry into Bolivar Trask's Sentinel files.  She regarded it a moment in the moonlight, a caustic grimace touching her lips.  Then she slipped it into her bra, picked up her purse and left.

           

            She was careful to take the utility stairs down and avoid the lifts and corridors.  On the fifth floor she slid into a store cupboard where Pyro had hidden her equipment a week before.  Again she unclothed, stuffed the offending green dress into one of her packs, and changed into her usual black bodysuit and old brown bomber jacket.  Glad to be out of the dress at last, she slipped out of the corridors with quietly, heading for the back doors she knew Avalanche had secured for her that morning.  There was only one thing on her mind as she reached the final passageway, as she saw those doors shining in the moonlight, beckoning her to make her escape.  All she wanted was to get home, to get back to base and get into that shower, to wash off Rifkind's lewd touches, to brush the taste of him out of her mouth, to wipe every trace of his memory from her body forever, even if it could only be an illusion…

            Her heart was thumping, and despite all her training she found her step quickening, her breath coming in short, sharp audible bursts as she half walked, half ran towards that ever-encroaching exit and…

            She reached out for the door handle and pushed, half afraid it would still be locked, feeling it give, feeling the door swing open under her touch…

            And suddenly she was on the outside once more, the sharp, cold sting of winter touching her cheeks, the air catching her breath as smoke, and she suddenly felt like shouting for joy - she'd never felt so invigorated, so glad to be out in the open air in all her life.

            Mission accomplished.

            Another notch on her belt, another blade wedged into her heart.

            She navigated the lot by keeping close to the walls and staying in the shadows, all the better to avoid cameras and prying eyes.  When she reached the exit, she paused, stepped onto the side road and looked about her.  It was a dingy street, rancid and dank, but thankfully empty.  She glanced at her watch.  10:30.  Technically, the night was still young.  The bright young things would be out on the town now, laughing and dancing and drinking and flirting and romancing, living their lives the way young people should.  A long time ago, Rogue would've been doing the same, had she ever been able to touch.   And now that she could touch, she was giving away all the feeling left inside her to men whose names she would never remember, to whom she was a nothing.

            Sometimes, moments like these, she missed Xavier and his dreams.

            She missed them because she didn't know how to dream anymore.

            She turned and began to walk towards the main street, thinking of the place she called home, thinking of a long, hot bath.

            And there he was.

            Leaning against the railing and watching her, as if he'd always been there watching her, waiting for her.

            She half-halted and stared at him, showing no outward sign of surprise - she never did, especially since she had now come to expect his impromptu appearances in her life - nevertheless her heart had begun to beat painfully against the wall of her chest.  She knew what his meetings meant by now.  She knew that whenever he showed up it could _only_ mean one thing.  Yet for some reason, despite everything that had happened that evening, she wanted it.  She wanted it bad.

            _But Ah don't need it.  It's the last thing Ah need…_

            And so she kept walking.

            He didn't stop her, didn't even say a word as she brushed past, but when she'd just about got to the main street she felt him behind her, knew he was following her just like he'd always ghosted her every move back when they'd been in the X-Men.

            “What're you doin' here?” she snapped at him over her shoulder, not knowing why she didn't just continue to ignore him.

            He grinned, came into step beside her as if she'd greeted him, and shrugged.

            “Got my day off.”

            She raised an eyebrow.

            “So you decided t' follow me?”

            He shrugged again, a slow, sexy smile crinkling his lips, the kind of smile that had made her knees go weak back in the day.

            “You're de flame, I'm de moth,” he said helplessly.

            Something in the words made her halt.  He'd known they would have that effect on her.  He stopped too, under the streetlight, lighting a cigarette while he waited for an answer.  It was a year and a month to the day since she'd last seen him - yes, she counted the days - since they'd last met that fateful night at the FoH headquarters.  There, under the eerie, ephemeral glow of the lamplight he didn't look much different at all - it was as if he never changed from one year to the next.  He was still beautiful, still lean and strong and dangerous, his movements still as elegant as the feline and irreverently seductive, as if he invited her with his body.  And as she stood there running her eyes over him, something unfurled in the pit of her stomach, something bold and animal and primitive, something wild and desperate in the face of the cold emptiness that had so consumed her.

            And suddenly she didn't even have to think about her answer, she simply had to open her mouth and it all came tumbling out on a laboured breath:

            “You wanna get burnt?”

            He took a drag; smoke wreathed him, making him seem even more beautiful, even more mysterious to her…

            “Only if you're offering.”

            She looked down the street, at the world spinning past, at the bright young things coming out to play in all their finery… She decided.

            Tonight, this night, she wanted a piece of it too.

            “You still got that place downtown?” she asked.

-oOo-

            It was the same old dingy block of flats, disused and disowned by all but the inconsequential and the unknown.  They'd parked his battered old Harley up outside the forecourt, their journey there having increased their impatience and hunger tenfold.  She'd clung to him while he'd ridden, pressing herself against the hard contours of his body, feeling the fire in her stomach stoking into an inferno of eager expectation, so that by the time they'd arrived at their destination her breath was shallow and shaky.

            They'd said nothing on the way up to his apartment; but she thought she saw his hands tremble too as he stabbed the key into the lock, pushed open the door, and let her step inside.

            It smelt as musty and unused as it had done the first time she'd come here - she heard him flick on the lights behind her and she looked around, interested to see whether it was the same.  And it was, superficially - still pokey and dusty and unkempt, and yet there were subtle changes here and there.  Bland white towels hung over the armchair, mugs on the stove, a portable heater in the corner, a fresh comforter on the mattress.  As she heard him close the door to and lock it behind her, she couldn't help but wonder how often he now came back here, whether he brought other women here too.

            _No, don't think about it…_

            She stood stationary in the middle of the room, her emotions wavering somewhere between need and dismay, desire and dread……

            It was a long moment before she felt him come up behind her, and his fingers tickled her hair softly; then suddenly he'd circled her, was in front of her, his hands on her upper arms, his eyes looking down into hers with now undisguised passion, and suddenly the animal hunger was kindled inside her again.  As he leaned forward and took her lips with his own she closed her eyes, her heart swelling in her chest in an onrush of emotion so violent she could barely breathe.  It was something so different, so totally divorced from what she had experienced with Rifkind before - it was magic, dark and seductive, and for once she was letting herself be seduced, she was wanting it with every fibre of her body.  It was the animal inside her that returned his kiss, devouring his mouth with a feral need that had long felt alien to her. He showed no surprise, no wonder at her abrupt and fierce reciprocation - if anything his embrace became deeper, more savage.  His hands slipped from her arms to her hips, pressing her against his pelvis, and she slid his arms over his shoulders, twined her fingers into his hair, grinding herself against his growing hardness, wanting to feel him, wanting that connection to bridge the aching gap inside her…

            _Ah need him inside me, Ah need him so bad… But not yet, not with Rifkind still on me…_

            The cold feeling was stealing over her again - she pushed against his chest with both hands, breaking their embrace. 

            “Remy…”

            He was reluctant to let her go, his hands cupping her buttocks, holding her against his erection; their breaths were both coming hard, and she whimpered a little as she felt his arousal press against her stomach, telling her exactly what she did to him, exactly what he wanted to do to her…

            “Mon Dieu, Rogue, you're so amazin'…” he purred, sucking her lower lip into a seductive kiss, but once more she pushed him away.

            “Remy… wait… please…” she breathed - her lungs were burning painfully.

            “What is it?” Another kiss, but she pulled back from it before it could become any deeper.

            “Remy… Ah-Ah really need t' go have a shower…”

            He paused, his eyes tracing her lips longingly before travelling to her eyes.

            “Den I'll join you,” he murmured; but there was no way in hell she was going to let him do that.  She clung to the lapels of his trench coat, wilfully suppressing the pleading in her voice as she continued.

            “No…Please… Ah just need to clean up, that's all… Ah won't be five minutes, Ah promise… It's - it's been a rough night.”

            Her voice trailed off, and even though he'd loosened his embrace, she was afraid he'd get suspicious at the desperation she felt sure was in her words.  But he stared at her a long moment, searching her gaze, before a slight smile curled his lips.

            “D'accord.  I know how sweaty it can get durin' missions, but chere… You an' me are gonna get a whole lot sweatier when we're done…”

            Even though she was screaming inside, she somehow managed to return the grin.

            “A gal's gotta make herself presentable for her man…” she drawled playfully, toying with the collar of his duster in a perfect display of coquettish sexiness.  His smile widened and he leaned in, his nose lightly touching her own.

            “Just don't keep me waitin' too long…”

            “Ah won't,” she whispered, and he kissed her, this time deliberate, unhurried, making her toes curl.

            It was all she could do to finally break away, grab one of the towels, and hurry to the bathroom.

 -oOo-

            It was cold and damp, but she'd been in worse places and frankly she didn't care.  Her limbs were shaking violently as she switched on the shower and scrambled out of her jacket and bodysuit.  The keycard was still stuck inside her bra, and she pulled it out, neatly tucking it inside one of the concealed inner pockets of her suit.  Then she hurried out of her underwear and threw it aside.  By the time she had done all this, she was trembling so fiercely that she could barely stand.  She could still smell Rifkind on her and it seemed impossible to her that Remy could not have smelt him too.

            _Maybe he doesn't care…_

            But somehow she knew that if he had known, he would never have taken her here, he would never have kissed her with such passion, and be hanging around outside this room right now, waiting for her and wanting her…

            It was a cold form of comfort.

            She stepped under the shower.  There was only soap, but it would have to do.  She let the hot water hit her for a moment, relishing the cleansing feel of it on her skin.  Then she got to work with the soap, going through the ritual she always went through when she was in the shower.  Each body part, one at a time.  Feet, legs, hands, arms, stomach, breasts, back, buttocks.  Each movement was calculated, methodical, almost obsessive.  Every iota of contamination had to scrubbed off.  She saved the more vigorous part of the routine for her genitals, which always remained till last.  There was a kind of brutal concentration on her face as she scoured this part of her body, trying desperately to destroy every trace of any man that had ever touched her there - she'd scrub until she was red and raw and still it wouldn't make any difference.

            Because it didn't matter how long she stayed in the shower, she knew she wouldn't be able to wipe the memory of Rifkind from her body - as long as she was alive, however much she cleaned herself he would be there, a part of him always inside her.

            And with that realisation, something inside her broke.  Suddenly there were tears spilling out of her eyes, and she dropped the soap and leant against the wall, wanting to lay down and die and escape this cruel Fate that had been handed to her.  Her cage, her prison, her cocoon -- one no one could save her from.

            Not even him.

            She cried for a long time, longer than she'd intended to, for she rarely indulged in self-pity anymore, seeing it as a sign of weakness.  But her tears were silent, and she made not a sound; and that was her only source of comfort, that she'd never surrender her voice to this pain, that she would confess it to no one.

            At last, tired and emotionally drained, she switched off the shower and passed a shaking hand over her face.  She'd been in there too long; he'd be getting impatient, wondering what was wrong.  Slowly, uncertainly, she stepped out of the cubicle and went to the sink, staring at herself in the mirror.  Her face was pale, her eyes puffy.  She turned on the faucet and splashed them with cold water.  She smiled a wan smile to herself, and her reflection smiled wanly back.  She thought, with a little regret, that while still youthful, something had gone out of her face - she looked somehow more worn, more tired.  She was still beautiful, but then, beauty was such an overrated thing these days and didn't mean very much.  She had been more beautiful when she was younger - beautiful in a truer sense, beautiful in a way that spoke of her soul, not just simply her looks.  Now the beauty was cold, superficial.  She had been a fool back then, to believe beauty was anything less than skin deep.

            She wondered what he thought of her when he looked at her face.

            She wondered why she came back to him at all, when all he did was what every other man did to her anyway.

            _Because it's the closest thing to love Ah can get._

            And because to her he was beautiful, inside and out.

           

            She picked up the towel, wrapped it round her.  One last look in the mirror.  She rumpled her dampened hair, pouted her lips.

            She felt stretched thin, thinner than ever before, but she figured she could stretch herself a little more, just for him.

            Her hand on the door, pushing: and suddenly she was out.

 -oOo-

            He'd been lying on the mattress staring at the ceiling when she came out the shower.  There had been no more feeling in her as she'd crossed the room towards him, no more feeling but this animal instinct - her heart empty, as if her tears had drained it all away.  He'd looked up at her as she'd entered, unable to hide the hunger in his face, and it had made it easier, easier for her to face this and pretend there was no emotion, there was no passion…  She'd stripped the towel from her, flung it aside, sank down onto the mattress and straddled his long, lean body, snaking her palms up his torso, his rough, chiselled face, relishing the texture of him.  When she kissed him it was greedy, lustful; and when he'd kissed her back, it was just as needy, just as hungry, his hands pressing her naked body towards his, no tenderness, no gentleness, just as raw and sordid and angry as she wanted, _needed_ it to be…

            There could be no more thoughts, no more feelings, nothing but instinct, nothing but touch.

            She had fallen into that cruel mechanical ritual, had already pulled off his clothes and was kissing a trail down his chest, his abdomen, lower, lower…  Her teeth grazing his hard flesh, her rough tongue worshipping him.  All the while she kept her eyes closed - it was the only way she could cope, that she could break the connection between emotion and action, that she could turn him into a _thing_ and not a man, a man that she cared for more than anything she'd ever cared for in all her life.  And yet she hated him, she hated him because she cared for him and she couldn't deal with that, she couldn't deal with the fact that they could be nothing more than this, than a cheap and tawdry fling once a year.

            And suddenly it wasn't so hard, it wasn't so hard to be violent, to make this brutal and unkind and indifferent, just like sex with every other man that used her had been.  She dug her nails into his thighs as she sucked him, hearing him panting above her, feeling his fingers twisting in her hair, drawing pain, sweet pain…

            “ _Stop_.”

            At first she'd thought it was her own imagination, that he hadn't really said it.  But when she felt his hands go slack, when she felt his body go limp against her own, she knew she'd gone too far.  So she stopped and slid back up against him, unable to meet his eyes - but still she insisted on kissing him, quick, light, fleeting kisses on his collarbone, his throat, his chin; but he kept twisting his mouth away from hers so she couldn't catch it, and underneath her body his own was unresponsive.

            “What is it?” she murmured between kisses, intent on catching his lips, but he'd grasped her head between his hands, trying to look into her face.  She dodged him, persisting in planting those light kisses on his chin - she didn't think she could take him staring into her eyes and seeing the pain that lay within. “Don’t Ah please you?” she asked, deliberately dropping her voice to something seductive.  She didn't understand what she'd done wrong… After all, every man she'd seduced the past year and a half had liked this kind of foreplay and she didn't doubt for a moment that he was really an exception to the rule…

            He was still clutching her head between his hands, still trying to get her to look at him, but she couldn't do it.

            “Somet'ing's different,” he murmured breathlessly. “ _You're_ diff'rent…”

            “No, Ah'm not…” She kissed his chin… “Ah still wantcha somethin' bad…” …His jaw… “Maybe Ah just ain't afraid t' show it anymore…”

            She pressed herself against him harder, wanting him to hate her, to use her, to abuse her any which way he wanted just as long as he didn't have to make her feel…

            But his hands were on her face, forcing her to look at him, to meet his gaze… And when she looked into his eyes, those deep, dark eyes, there was no anger there, no violence, none of the leering lust she saw in the eyes of so many men when they looked at her…  Instead his gaze was tender, it was questioning, it was all things she didn't want from this one night; and it was breaking her heart, making her fall for him even more…

            Tears rose in her throat, but she held them back because she never cried when she was with a man, and she wasn't going to cry for him.

            “Let's go slow,” he murmured, delicately brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes so open, so trusting… “Okay?”

            She couldn't find the words to answer; but he needed none anyway.  Gently he rolled them both over, never breaking eye contact with her, searching her face as his body settled, warm and strong, into hers; and suddenly the helpless desperation in her was quelled; suddenly there was no more fight left in her.  His mouth was on hers, kissing her slowly, moist and soft, the texture of velvet, caressing a kiss back from her with his tongue, making her shudder, making her moan… The defences she'd erected around her heart had crumbled haphazard around her.  Without knowing it she was kissing him back with eyes closed, shyly, deeply, her arms involuntarily reaching out for him, holding him as if to hold him too close would be to break him.  And suddenly it was different.  Suddenly she was feeling.

            He'd left her mouth and was now kissing a lazy trail down her neck, her clavicle, lower still, slower and gentler than the kisses she'd lavished on his body before.  She didn’t dare to open her eyes in case he stopped, in case it ended.  Unable to help herself she twined her fingers in his hair, guiding him onward as his lips drew lower still, over her stomach… His tongue lathing her navel, leaving her core tingling in a glow so intense she thought she would burst with it.

            And then it hit her.

            _What if he could tell, what if he could taste all those other men on her…?_

            “Remy…”

            But his mouth was already there, kissing her with that same, reverent slowness, his tongue fluttering inside her, and she caught a breath, her pelvis involuntarily rising to meet his kiss, her mind reeling with pleasure and horror… A cold fire was in her heart, in her throat… Because however much she scrubbed herself in that shower, however long she spent under that water she never felt clean, she would always come out again feeling dirty and defiled --

            _Stop!_

            For a second she thought he must have heard her, for his kiss became less intense, and then he stopped altogether, and she thought with a certain dread, that he _must_ have known, he _must_ have been able to tell that he was not the only one……

            She lay there panting, feeling his weight sinking in against her once more, and as his face came back into view, she saw that there was no rage on his face.

            “You okay?” she felt more than heard him whisper.

            She swallowed, nodded.

            “You were so tense…” he murmured, brushing loose curls from her cheek once more, his expression questioning.

            “F-first time,” she lied.  He smiled.

            “Sorry.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I jus' thought… De way you were comin' at me earlier on, you'd be ready…” His mouth opened hers again in another soul-stirring kiss, his way of apologising - but she didn't think she could take much more of this whimsical foreplay without bursting into tears, without telling him she loved him.

            She twisted her lips from his, even though it killed her to do so.

            “Remy…”

            “Hmmm?”

            “ _Now…_ ” she whispered.

            There was a pause, and a shade crossed his face; but she knew he wouldn't, couldn't refuse her.  He'd dipped his head once more, kissing her with open eyes; but she'd closed her own when he entered her, not wanting to see the look on his face when he first pushed inside her.  Because something had changed, and now it was different to all the times before.  Because this time she was answering him with every ounce of her being because she wanted it like he wanted it, and it was almost too much for her to handle, to even comprehend.  The previous times she'd been with him she'd been uncertain, unsure, letting him lead her; she'd been a child-woman, an infant with touch.  And all the other times she'd been with other men for the sake of the mission, she'd been divorced from her body, a cold automaton with no emotions, no heart, no feeling.

            But that night was the first night she realised the difference between sex and lovemaking, between lust and intimacy.  For the first time they were both equals in this act, and for the first time she had felt something change in the nature of their relationship, something tangible yet ambiguous, something they'd never be able to reverse again.

            In that one insoluble night they ceased to be mere strangers, comrades, teammates, colleagues, friends.

            From that night onward, they were lovers.

 -oOo-

            It must've been hours later when they stopped, exhausted yet for the first time curiously satisfied in a way they had not been satisfied in years.  Satisfaction was a strange thing to come by these days, and they were both so full on it, they now felt a little bewildered.  So they lay together, silent and bemused on the dusty mattress, for they'd never in their wildest dreams guessed that they would ever be satisfied again.

            She hadn't counted the times they'd made love, each time more desperate and violent than the last.  It was as if a barrier had been broken between them, a dam had been cracked and the floodwaters had come gushing out.  Everything that they'd ever wanted to say to one another but were still unable to seemed to manifest itself through their bodies - they knew they'd never be able to vent it any other way.  It was still an unspoken rule that they never ask the other about their lives, their loves, their emotions.  Despite the sudden and subtle change in the balance of their relationship, they still knew that tomorrow they would part again and go back to their dark and monotonous lives.  Whatever their feelings, their connection could never break the bonds of the physical.  The physical was the only form of communication they had.

            And this time, when she cuddled against him and he put his arms around her, it wasn't just the embrace of two incidental outsiders coming together out of a mutual need for warmth and comfort.  Not anymore.  It was the embrace of a couple who now felt they shared a singular bond - a camaraderie, a conspiracy almost, something no one else could touch.

            Neither voiced the sudden realisation that this unwitting collusion now existed, but as they lay there entwined together in the silence of the night, each could not help but quietly acknowledge that it did.

            To Rogue, it was the most frightening and exciting thing she'd ever known.

            As if, in making love to him, she was fighting against the world.

 

            Despite these subtle changes, something of their previous rituals still remained.  Afterwards they would say very little; he would smoke a cigarette or two, and she would nestle into him and hold onto him as much as she dared.  But this time round she couldn't help touching him, feeling every inch of his body that she could reach - she wasn't scared of his sexuality anymore, nor of her own - in fact she was greedy for him, because he was the only thing she wanted but could never truly have.

            “I swear de past couple of years you've gotten better at dis,” he suddenly murmured out of the blue, breaking their prolonged silence. 

            “What?” she asked, running her fingers down over his taut abdomen and lower still with a playful lightness, feeling him tense then moan as she tickled him mercilessly, feeling devilish.

            “ _Dat_ ,” he groaned, removing her wandering hand before she could do anymore damage.

            “Why, you complainin'?” she asked boldly, surrendering and letting him have his way for now.

            “Nope,” he replied, but as she looked into his face she saw doubt in his eyes, the same shade that had passed over his face before he'd first entered her.

            That look, that long questioning look sent her heart cold.

            _Could it be that he can tell?  That he knows Ah've been with other men…?_

She waited for the accusation to come, but it didn't.  Instead he half smiled, touched her cheek and quipped: “Never thought I'd live t' see the day de Rogue became a sex goddess.”

            She grimaced derisively.  _Is that all he cares about, how Ah measure up against his stupid standards?  If he knew what Ah did for the sake of the mission, would he be so picky then?_

            “Lucky Ah have such a great teacher then, huh?” she muttered disdainfully, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.  His expression was slightly wounded.

            “Don't get like dat.  I'm payin' you a compliment.”

            “Yeah. Now Ah'm just about as good as all the other women you fuck.  Great.”

            She could tell that he was slightly bewildered as to her sudden agitation.  The last thing she wanted was for him to question her - if he did she knew she'd break down and the truth would have to come out.  So she rolled over onto her side, turning her back on him.  There was a confused silence before she felt him spoon in against her back, felt his breath in her hair as he said: “Rogue, we’ve talked about dis before.  You _know_ you're not the only woman I sleep wit', so--”

            “Yeah, Ah know,” she snapped before he could continue. “And Ah'm fine with it, Remy.  _Fine_.”

            “So why do I get de impression you're not?”

            “Don’t flatter yourself.  This doesn’t mean anything, does it?  You said it yourself.  You made it perfectly clear last time we were here that this is just sex.”

            There was another pause, thick and pregnant, and she lay there, her heart pounding horribly as she realised… _Ah'm sayin' too much, Ah'm givin' too much away…_

            “And does dat bother you?” came his voice, soft and unreadable…

            _Ah've said too much…_

            She rolled over quickly, looked him in the eye, and without once wincing, without even blinking, said: “ _No_.”

            A horrible lie, a challenge in the face of all the hurt and pain and suffering that consumed her days, that would never stop consuming them till the day she died.

            She didn't wait to see his reaction.  She knew he'd heard what he wanted to hear.  Leaning forward, she kissed him, long and hard; and he responded with equal roughness, pulling her closer to him.  The embrace was bold, daring, the last defence she had against the truth.  And when they pulled apart she ran a hand through his hair, content to watch him, content to let him watch her.

            “It doesn't bother me,” she murmured at last, decidedly. “Y'know why?  Because after everythin' yah said t' me last time we were here… After all that bravado yah came out with… Yah came back after all.  Yah came back, Remy.”

            He smiled at her beautiful, guarded…

            “I didn't mean t' say those things t' you last time,” he returned in an undertone, his eyelids heavy. “I was just angry wit' you, chere.”

            “Maybe,” she said contemplatively. “But what you said was right.  This doesn't mean anythin', does it?  Not out there.” She looked away, to the window. “Out there is the reality.  And this is just some sorta fucked up wet dream.  But Ah guess we'll dream it again, someday.” She chuckled softly. “When Ah saw you outside the Ritz t'day, Ah was pissed.  Last year yah told me Ah shouldn’t wait for yah, that you weren't gonna come back.  And then there you were, right outside that hotel, waitin' for me anyways.”

            His arms were still snugly round her hips; his fingers idly tickled the small of her back.

            “Guess I just can't stay away,” he murmured.

            She chuckled again lightly.

            “Ah hope that means that someday, you’ll be back hangin' round mah door again, sugah.”

            She didn’t wait to hear him say yes or no.  She didn't want to; she didn’t want to know if or how long she would ever have to wait to be with him again.  Instead she closed the gap between them, putting her arms round him, holding him close when all she really wanted to hear him say was, _this does mean something, it isn't just sex, you mean something to me, Rogue, even if we can't be together…_

            But she knew that if he did say it, if she did hear those words, she wouldn't be able to leave this room, she wouldn't be able to leave _him_ … She'd never be able to go back to the life she now led, the life of a terrorist, an outlaw, a whore…

            Because she wanted all or nothing, and she knew that was something he'd never be willing to give her.

 

            And yet was it only her imagination that he seemed to cling to her a little too tightly; that as she drifted off into sleep his embrace was more secure, more protective than it had ever been before?

 -oOo-

            Her sleep that night was strangely untroubled, and when she awoke the next morning she felt more refreshed than she had done many mornings past.  But his embrace, which had so tenderly lulled her into sleep the night before, was gone.  The only sign that he was still present was the sound of running water in the bathroom.

            Reaching out over the edge of the mattress she fumbled for his watch, which he had left on the floor, and cast a bleary eye at it.  Seven.  She groaned, not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to leave the place where so many of her happiest moments had been.  Nevertheless she knew she couldn't stay much longer.  By now Mystique would at best be worried about her, at worst foaming at the mouth.  Best not to incur her wrath much more than was possible - she knew how anal Mystique could be about the slightest thing, and her absence the previous night meant she was already going to get more than just a stern talking to.

            Even though her body protested at every movement, Rogue rolled out from under the covers and staggered across the room, her limbs wobbly.  Her bodysuit and underwear had been slung over the back of the chair; her pack had still been left in the corner, untouched.  She slipped on her underwear, deciding not to get into the bodysuit since a shower would be best before she left.  Though her bag looked secure enough, she wondered whether he'd rifled through her things while she'd been asleep, whether he'd seen the dress she'd worn to seduce Rifkind, whether he'd seen the butterfly pendant tucked inside the inner pocket for good luck.  She wondered whether he had any interest in her 'other' life at all.  Maybe he didn't want to know.  Maybe he wanted to keep as distant from her as possible.  It lessened the risk of attachment, of guilt and regret.  She could understand that.  But somehow she secretly wanted him to go through all her personal belongings, she wanted him to seek a connection deeper than that which their trysts encompassed…

            She suddenly wondered if Irene had ever foreseen these dalliances they shared, and whether she knew, and always _had_ known, that this morning Rogue would be here, whether Rogue would _always_ be right here… …

            It was while she was standing there, tying up her hair into a ponytail and mulling over these things, that he finally emerged, naked but for a towel round his waist.  He seemed surprised to see her up already, instantly becoming awkward, brushing past her to retrieve his clothes with an air of forced insouciance. 

            “You're up early,” he noted somewhat accusingly.  She bristled to hear his tone, so harsh, so reproachful, but managed a shrug in the face of it.

            “Ah slept better last night.”

            She thought he'd show some sense of remorse but he merely grunted.  She heard him drop the towel and a part of her wanted to turn and look, but another part knew it would invite something more sensual between them, and she knew that with the night over there could be no more hope of that.  Still, she resented the enforced coolness of their relationship come the morning.  She knew he did it because he didn't want them to become too dependent on one another; but if he could just show her some sense of affection, some sense of _acknowledgement_ that the night before had actually happened at all…

            “Remy…” she began, while he continued to dress behind her.

            “Yeah?” His tone was gruff, abrupt.  She hesitated, continued quietly: “Thank you.  For last night, Ah mean.”

            She heard him pause behind her, surprised; but a well of emotion was brewing up inside her and she needed to get it out, she needed to talk about it even if he didn't want to hear it...

            “Ah know you probably don't wanna hear this,” she spoke slowly to the wall, “but Ah just wanna let you know that…” She paused, her breath catching slightly. _That it did mean somethin' t' me, that it did make all the difference t' this gal's life…_ She blinked, her eyes suddenly smarting. “That Ah'm really grateful, that's all.  Ah-Ah really needed it; last night.  So yeah.  Thanks.”

            She stopped, feeling oddly relieved at having made some allusion to her feelings, however inadequate.  He said nothing.  After a moment she heard him continue to dress, then move to the other corner of the room where she knew his bags were.  Her throat constricted.  They'd spent five minutes in one another's presence and he'd spoken a grand total of four words to her.

            Even after last night, even after the strange certainty that they were now no longer simply friends but lovers, he was still treating her like this, still denying that anything existed between them…

            But then suddenly he was right there behind her, his body heat warming the length of her back, and she started when she felt him press a kiss against the nape of her neck, a delicate, lingering kiss that said more than words ever could have done.

            She didn't wait to rationalise it.  Turning, she wrapped her arms round his body and buried her face in his chest, flooding her nostrils with the spicy scent of his aftershave, the faint aroma of tobacco, of leather and motorcycle grease, all the smells she couldn't help but associate with him whenever she came across them.  She knew it was bold, she knew it was dangerous, she knew it went against every unspoken rule that lay between them, but she couldn't help it.

            “Ah don't want you to go,” she whispered, and she thought he'd be angry, that he'd push her away and remonstrate with her for being such a fool, but instead he inhaled a long breath, a breath she read like a sign; and suddenly she was overjoyed because she knew he was hesitating, she knew he was wavering too…

            “I've gotta go,” he murmured into her hair - a reminder, low, apologetic.  She clasped him a moment longer, taking a deep breath of him before letting him go and stepping back.

            “Take care of yourself, Remy,” she half-whispered. “Stay alive.”

            He stood mute, his arms hanging by his side, his expression imparting nothing; then suddenly there was a ghost of a movement, and she thought he had meant to enfold her in his arms once more; but a split second later the impression had gone, and he had merely given her a short nod of the head.

            He turned, picked up his bags, walked to the door, and with that image of him she thought her heart would break; but she tried to hold the agony deep inside her, tried to hold it back, and it was breaking through her defences, seeping out into her veins, into her skin, and a wail was forming inside her, scrambling into her throat, leaping to make its escape……

            “Remy.”

            He halted at the name, so softly spoken on a drawn-out breath.

            She paused, gathered all her courage, managed a smile. “Until next time.”

            He half turned, a small grin suddenly on his face, brazen as ever.

            “Until next time, chere.”

            It was the last thing she saw, that sultry smile, before he'd shut the door behind him, and was gone from her life once more.

-oOo-


	14. Lies & Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy thinks he's found a way to break free of his boss, but throws it all away to find a way to get close to Rogue again.

            Remy LeBeau stepped outside the apartment block, paused out on the forecourt, and looked about.  A light drizzle of sleet was fluttering about him, filling the dull grey streets and the bleak, ugly concrete high-risers with an inordinate brightness that seldom touched this part of the city.  Not a soul was in sight - the sky was virtually cloudless apart from odd wisps here and there, and was a pale shade of lilac.  From afar, the plaintive whine of an unknown hound filled the air with a chill other than the bitter cold of winter.  It was the wail of despair, of desolation, of sorrow.

            It was a feeling Remy knew all too well himself.

            But these were things that concerned him little these days.  Even in brighter days gone by, he'd always been a little lonely, a little desolate.  Resigned, impassive, he glanced left down the sidewalk.  A few yards away, a homeless man was sitting in a heap of rags that doubled up as clothing, tripled up as a comforter.  He was sitting by a makeshift fire, but making no attempt to warm himself.  As Remy stared at him, he stared back, equally as calm, equally as impassive.  They knew one another well, far more than an outsider may have thought, had he witnessed the vacant stare that passed between them.

            Slowly Remy sauntered down the sidewalk and approached the man, until he stood right in front of him, hands in pockets, breath catching on the frosty winter air.  The man looked back up at him, quite unconcerned - he had a sagging face, black, insipid eyes.  This close, Remy could see the grimy snout of a mangy dog poking out from underneath the pile of rags, its expression so doleful as to be almost human.

            “De lady dat comes out of dat apartment block,” Remy spoke evenly, tonelessly. “De one wit' de white streak in her hair.  I want you to look out for her.  You see her around, I want you to tell me where she was and what she was doin', whenever I come round dis way again.  You got dat?”

            The man didn’t move.  Only his eyes showed any animation, travelling slowly to the doorway of the apartment block Remy had just emerged from, then back to Remy himself.  His answer was simply a wordless nod.

            Words were always superfluous with this one.  By way of thanks Remy simply returned a curt nod of his own, then dropped a couple of dollars and a half empty pack of cigarettes at his feet.  Then he turned, and walked away.

            Behind him, he could here the man, barking, yapping and whining to the dog at his side in a language none but the canine could understand.

 -oOo-

            By the afternoon, the sleet had stopped.

            Remy sat on his Harley beside the Hudson River and stared out into its dark and murky churning waters.

            He was blatantly ignoring orders by sitting here and sulking.  It was meant to be another day of business, but somehow he didn't have the heart for it.  His heart was still back in that dingy little apartment, still in the hands of the woman named Rogue.  It had cost everything he had to walk out on her that morning.

            The moment he'd seen her walk out of that hotel building he'd instinctively known there was something different about her.  It wasn't the way she looked, wasn't even the way she walked or the way she acted.  It was the way she'd looked at him, the aura he'd got from her, the same kind of aura he got from many women who looked at him.

            The two previous times he'd crossed paths with her, she'd been nervous, uncertain, hiding her uneasiness under a veneer of deliberate nonchalance.  But this time he'd caught something else from her.  Fire, greed, recklessness, desperation.  Need.  _Need_.  All bubbling away under the surface, where it had always existed, where he had always _known_ it existed.  And now it had somehow all come to the fore, and he had felt it literally oozing out of her, crackling around her like static electricity.  He'd found it intensely sexy, intensely exciting.  He hadn't nearly been ready for the way she'd come at him once they'd got into the apartment… He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so aroused when she'd reciprocated to him, when she'd shown him exactly how much she wanted him too.  He didn't know what it was, but in the year since they'd last met she seemed to have blossomed sexually, as a woman, as a lover; she was no longer hung up about her body, about his, about sex itself.

            And yet there had still been the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty in her, and he couldn't place what it was.  Some of the things she'd said and done; the expressions she'd shown him; the way her body had tensed up when he'd kissed her down there… They confused him, and he didn't know why.  More than once that night it had crossed his mind that perhaps her sudden sexuality and her odd moments of reticence were down to there being another man in her life, but he'd refrained from asking her because he'd made it clear to her that their relationship was based on nothing more than sex, that they bore one another no sense of commitment.  He himself was far from faithful to her and had never had any intention of being so.  Likewise, he could not expect her to be exclusive to him.  She was a beautiful, desirable woman - she had every reason to form relationships with other men, to find pleasure elsewhere - even security, commitment and love.  Yet the thought of her with another man was distasteful to him, and whether it was a defence mechanism or not, he couldn't quite believe she was with anybody else.  He couldn't believe it because there had been many moments the previous night when she had led him to believe there was more feeling on her part than just a desire for sex.

            _Doesn't mean she can't have another man on de side though, does it, LeBeau?_

            He stared into the dark, swirling waters, blowing smoke, his expression morose.

            _Who're you kiddin'? You_ know _how she feels about you, she holds on too tight, she kisses too deeply, she fucks wit' too much soul.  And you let her.  You let her 'cos you like it, you like de fact dat you're de only man alive to her._

            It wouldn't have mattered, if he hadn’t been feeling slightly guilty about it.  After all, most women he slept with were just a pleasant memory come the morning; those he slept with on a more regular basis were either business acquaintances for whom sex was a strange form of business contract, or girls he saw purely for the sake of pleasure and because they asked absolutely nothing from him.

            Rogue was different.  He had absolutely no reason to fraternise with her - their lives were spent in separate spheres, and he knew nothing about her life outside of the mission, outside of the few precious hours of her time that he shared.  After that first night when their paths had so fortuitously crossed, he'd simply formed an attachment to her that he still wasn't quite able to break.  That simple attachment went against the entire business code that he lived by.  Instead of forgetting about her and carrying on with his life, he'd gone out of his way to keep her there.  Knowing she was still around, knowing she was still alive was enough for him.  Whenever the need to see her again would get too great, that was the time he'd find out exactly where she was and he made sure he'd be there for her, waiting.

            She never showed any surprise when he turned up.  She never even asked him how he knew where she was.  It had grown to be an unspoken rule between them, and he liked it that way.  He liked her for never asking him about his secrets.  It was good to know she'd always accept him when he showed up, without any questions asked.  He liked it because despite all the lengths he went to keep her in his sights, it gave the illusion that the attachment between them was still a casual one, nothing deeper than a coincidental meeting once a year.

            His cigarette had almost burnt down to the butt and he flicked it into the water, lit another.  He knew they'd both danced too close to the edge last night.  Because something had changed between them - even he had felt it.  For the first time he'd felt a true sense of connection with her, something that had crossed the boundary of the physical and into something purely emotional.  It wasn't even love exactly.  It was something clandestine, something dangerous and bold and illicit.  It was the mutual recognition that they'd both crossed an unseen line together that had made them unwitting partners-in-crime.

            The collusion had transformed them into lovers, had forged a bond between them that now could not be broken.

            It was the thing he'd taken such great pains to avoid, and he had no idea how it had come about.  It meant that now, wherever they were in this world, however long they were apart, they were linked by more than just casual, sexual acquaintance.

            They were linked by something far more powerful, far more potent, and he could feel it now, bearing down on him, inescapable, irresistible, drawing him towards her as inexplicably as the moon drew in the tides.

            Their lives, so dark, so desolate, so ravaged and torn… they had been interwoven, interlocked by something invisible and untraceable, that thing called Fate.

           

            His cell phone suddenly went off, interrupting his train of thought.  Sighing, Remy dug into his coat pocket and flipped it open.

            It was the boss.

            His natural inclination was to ignore the call, but for some reason, he took it.

            “I'm on it,” was all he said.

            He flipped the phone shut with a sharp _clack_.  Rain was beginning to fall on the gloomy, grey waters of the Hudson, breaking his reflection.  He didn’t need to see it anymore.  Now all he needed was to forget himself, what he was and what he looked like.  He threw the cigarette into the river, clasped the handlebars and revved up the engine.  Spinning the bike round, he left.

 -oOo-

            It was one of the trendiest restaurants in town, a place where the beautiful, the rich and the famous would come to socialise and to be seen.

            Of course, every good thing has its ugly side, and _The Princess_ was no exception.  It may have been one of _the_ places to be in New York City, but by night it was also a veritable den of iniquity.  Underneath its opulent and elegant veneer, it was the favourite haunt of many of the city's crime bosses, a place where all types of shady business dealings were de rigueur and would be happily discussed over a five-course meal.

            Remy didn’t come here often, but now and then it would be part of his job description, which he had no particular complaints about.  Hobnobbing with New York's aristocracy happened to be as natural to him as slumming it with the riffraff.  And it made a nice change to dress well and eat from a silver spoon once in a while.

            Very often, the views weren't half bad either.

            Tonight the view in question was the woman sitting opposite him, a woman he could only loosely term as a business associate, since even on the rare occasions they made a business transaction, money was only rarely exchanged, and they never said enough to be even vaguely aware of what it was that the other did, let alone what they were like as people.  Neither of them particularly cared about this, since they didn’t have a great deal of liking for one another, and whenever they did fraternise outside of business, it certainly didn’t involve any kind of talking.

            All he knew was that she was one of the greatest and most cunning of international crime bosses.  She owned her own kingdom, a south-east Asian nation named Madripoor, and she had once headed the New York branch of Hydra, one of the world's most feared terrorist organisations.  She was no small fry - if there was ever a woman to be feared, it was the woman currently sitting in the seat opposite him.  Her name was Viper, and as with many of the people within whose circles he moved, he had no clue as to her real name.  But Viper suited her well enough, and so it was Viper everyone called her.  In fact, Remy couldn’t imagine her being called anything else.

            “So, Mr. LeBeau,” she began, in an accent that may have been Eastern European, but that also held the distinct quality of something more exotic, perhaps the Far East. “I'm given to understand that you wish to conduct business, is that so?”

            She sucked at the exceptionally long, shiny, lacquered cigarette holder in a gesture that was loaded with suggestion, and blew smoke voluptuously into the air.  Remy took his time lighting his own cigarette, without once taking his eyes off her.

            “As usual, ma chere,” he drawled, “you would be right.”

            He smiled.  She smiled.  Still, he didn’t take his eyes off her.  To do so would be to invite disaster, since nobody could ever be sure what she was likely to do next.  She could strike at any moment, swift and vicious as the cobra, and Remy wasn’t about to take any chances with her.  He may have liked the look of her, but he didn’t trust her any further than he could throw her, and that wasn't very far.

            Tonight she looked every inch a predator, the kind of femme fatale that would grace a noir B-movie from the forties.  Dressed in lush, forest green velvet, diamonds, and with her glorious mane of raven locks tumbling over her shoulders in thick, voluptuous waves, she exuded the kind of confident sexiness that almost always gave her the upper hand in business dealings simply by default.  Men were either intimidated by her, or so entranced by her that they were left slavering at her feet.  Remy was different though, and she knew it.  He was a seducer of seductresses; he knew every tactic of hers off by heart, and if she tried to use her charms on him he could outmanoeuvre her a thousand times over. Viper was always forced to play fair with him, and whilst she resented this, he thought she secretly enjoyed it too.

            Dangerous people always seem to enjoy it when they think they've met their match.

            “So what is it you want exactly?” she inquired, raising a well-marked eyebrow. “Intelligence?  Technology?  Arms?  Narcotics?  Or…” and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping a notch, low and husky, “would it be business of a more… physical kind you're after?”

            The small, knowing smile was still on his face; he lowered his eyelids briefly as he tapped his cigarette against the ornate, crystal ashtray at his right arm, moving his eyes back to hers and pouring all the charm he possessed into that one, smouldering look.

            “Unfortunately, no,” he replied with exaggerated regret. “While I do so enjoy our little encounters, Lady Viper, I'm afraid t'night is just strictly business. I need some information.”

            She pouted, slouched back in her chair, and propped her right arm over the back of it, scratching her temple with a long, gloved finger. 

            “Information?  About a mutant, I presume.” Her lips contorted into a disapproving grimace. “At the behest of your so-called boss?”

            “My boss _is_ interested in a certain mutant - or rather, a bunch o' mutants, and where dey can be found,” he replied, non-committal, the smile on his face fading somewhat.  He raised the cigarette to his lips and stared at her with narrowed eyes.

            “ _Really?_ ” She cocked her head slightly, considering his expression. “And what would your boss be willing to pay me in return for this information?”

            Remy said nothing, but reached down for the briefcase by his side and slapped it meaningfully onto the table.  Viper stared at it a moment, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

            “I have no need of money,” she returned scornfully.

            His expression didn’t change one iota.

            “It isn't money,” he informed her evenly.

            Her eyebrow shot up again, her countenance suddenly questioning.

            “Then what--?”

            “It's a serum,” he interjected softly, lowering his voice. “A cure to dat disease dat's been spreadin' like wild-fire through Madripoor's Lowtown.  It's only a matter of time before it reaches Hightown, isn't it?  And if your scientists can't find a cure in time…” He trailed off meaningfully, and, with a glib smile, opened his hands amiably. “Think about it.  You could be waitin' months for those yes-men of yours to find a solution.  By which time, of course, Hightown's population could be totally decimated, leaving Madripoor's economic centre a virtual ghost town.  On de other hand, I have de cure right here.” He patted the edge of the briefcase teasingly. “Within a couple of days, you could stop de disease right in its tracks and avert a national catastrophe.  Sounds like some great PR to me, Lady Viper.”

            Viper's eyes went wide.  She hesitated and her jaw twitched; first she stared at the briefcase, then at him, then the briefcase again.

            “What is it that you wish to know?” she asked quietly.

            “De Hounds,” Remy spoke in a lower voice, his tone cold, practical. “And where exactly dey can be found.”

            Viper stared at him a moment before giving him a short, humourless bark of a laugh.

            “Ahab's Hounds?  You must be out of your mind!” She leaned forward again, those dark, dangerous eyes of hers narrowing again. “Even if I wanted to give you that information, Gambit, I wouldn’t be able to, for the simple reason that _I don’t know_.  The truth is, _nobody_ knows.” She sat back again, spread out her arms in a rather helpless gesture. “That isn't to say that I haven't _tried_ to find out.  I've set many of my best spies on Ahab and his sick pets, but predictably, none of them have ever returned.  I don’t think even the President knows of the whereabouts of the Hound headquarters.  So far as I can tell there are only three people who know of the location - the Secretary of Defence, General Saunders; Director of Trask Technologies, Bolivar Trask; and Ahab himself.” She paused, put the cigarette holder to her lips, and stared at the briefcase again longingly. “You'll have to ask me another question, darling, and this time make sure it's one that I can answer.”

            “All right.” Remy laid his hands on the table and linked his fingers together. “Tell me what you _do_ know about de Hounds.”

            Viper picked up the wineglass sitting in front of her, gazed into the blood red liquid pooled within.

            “The Hounds I can tell you a little of.  They are an elite group of mutants chosen specifically for their telepathic, empathic, or psionic abilities - any power, in short, which allows them to locate and pinpoint the whereabouts of another mutant.  That is why they're so good at what they do - namely hunting down mutants.” She paused, sipped at her wine with relish and continued. “From the information I _have_ managed to glean, Ahab can enhance their ability by 'switching on' a certain gene that allows the Hounds to detect the genetic scent of others.  It's this that makes the Hounds so deadly to mutantkind.”

            “And de programmin'?” he probed, finally feeling that he was getting somewhere. “Has anyone been able to find out _how_ it's done?”

            Viper glanced at him, half-smiled, weighing up exactly how much she should tell him.  Again she glanced at the briefcase and after a moment, she relented.

            “I'm not sure exactly _how_ it's done.  But I _did_ manage to track down Moira MacTaggert, a prominent geneticist with whom Ahab once collaborated on his more 'mainstream' scientific projects.”

            Remy nodded silently.  He remembered her from his days back with the X-Men; she'd been a close personal friend and former lover of Charles Xavier himself.

            “And what did she say?” he queried.

            “She said that Ahab had been toying with a form of brainwashing - one that she thoroughly disapproved of on both scientific and moral grounds,” Viper replied airily. “You'll have to forgive me - I'm no scientist by any stretch of the imagination - but from what I gather, the Hounds' brainwashing isn't exactly brainwashing per se.  Brainwashing, you see, implies the total annihilation of any memory and all thoughts stored within the brain, thus making the subject susceptible to mind control.  But Ahab's programming works differently.  He essentially masks the subject's memories, deadens his or hers ability to act upon their own thoughts, their own needs, wants and desires.”

            “Then --”

            “Yes.  Beneath the mask, the individual subject's personality is still very much intact, and has not been 'washed' away at all.  As far as Dr. MacTaggert could tell, somewhere within the subject's mind, they are still very much aware of exterior sensation and information, but utterly unable to react to it.  The essential components remain, but are suppressed and controlled.”

            Remy stared over her shoulder, the ash dropping from his now-neglected cigarette and into the bottom of his ashtray.

            “De chink in de armour…” he muttered half to himself.

            “Indeed,” Viper returned coolly. “It means that once the programming is broken, there isn't just a clean slate left.  The subject's psyche may be damaged by the programming - who knows?  But essentially, the subject's psyche will _still be there_.  The only problem is, no one knows _how_ to deprogram a Hound.” She grinned wryly at him. “But I'm sure your boss would be more than willing to figure _that_ little conundrum out.”

            Remy said nothing.  Of course, that's what this was all about.  Deprogramming Hounds.  He didn’t even want to know what his employer wanted to do with them afterwards.

            “So,” Viper was saying, casual once more, “what is it that your employer wants with the Hounds anyway?”

            “Dat's my boss' business,” Remy grimaced. “I couldn’t give a shit about de Hounds, as long as dey stay de hell outta my way.”

            “Hmph,” she snorted haughtily, raising the waiting wineglass to her lips and taking a generous sip. “I have always thought, Gambit, that this 'alliance' with your so-called employer is such an unfortunate waste of good talent.” She set her glass down, frowning. “The skills you possess could be put to far better use.  Why do you fetter yourself to such a distasteful creature?”

            It was an opening to flirtation that he simply couldn’t resist.

            “Why?” he asked, a lopsided yet charming grin returning to his lips. “Would you rather I was fettered to _you_ , Viper?”

            Under the heavy lids, her eyes glittered seductively.

            “Gambit, darling, if you were fettered to me 24/7 I'd soon get bored of you,” she purred. “Contrary to popular belief, I have no interest in subjugating a man such as you.  I find you far more enticing when you come to me of your own volition.” She pressed her tongue behind her teeth and threw him a lascivious look, which he wholeheartedly returned.

            “You mean you prefer dis Cajun wild and untamed?” he drawled, and she laughed appreciatively.

            “Very much so.  But bantering aside, darling,” she added, with a more serious air, “you would do yourself less of a disservice if you were to operate as a free agent.  Think of the things you could achieve, Remy, if you were your own master.  Break the bonds of those that control you, and you could go far.  Very far indeed,” she murmured emphatically, and he felt her foot trail sensuously up the inside of his calf.

            “A very tempting proposition, ma chere,” he returned lazily. “But contrary to what _you_ may believe, I'm not interested in power.  Think about it.  If I had power, what'd I do wit' it?  I'd just gamble it all away.  Power is a useless commodity t' someone like me.”

            “So what _are_ you interested in?” she asked softly, propping her chin in both hands and gazing at him with those calculating, snake-like eyes.

            “I dunno,” he shrugged. “Bein' myself, and doin' what I want t' do.”

            “But surely,” she protested, “surely working for such a master--”

            “ _No one_ has a hold over me,” Remy replied firmly. “I walk de edge, I don’t take sides and I play for me.  No one knows what I want, no one knows who I am.I am where I am right now because dat's where I _want_ t' be.  And when I decide dis ain't where I want to be anymore, dat's when I'll move on.”

            “So what keeps you here now?” she probed quietly.

            He thought a while.

            “Here and now… I get t' do somet'ing for de mutant cause, I get paid well, I get de cheap thrills, and I get de beautiful women.  Why de hell would I want to move on?”

            She laughed.  There was something harsh and rapacious about her laugh, but he suspected he was the only one who could make her laugh at all.

            “So beautiful women is one of the requisites in your life, is it, Remy LeBeau?”

            “I guess you could call it a weakness of mine,” he answered without a hint of shame.  She chuckled quietly, her glance now ravenously searching his face.

            “I pity the woman who steals your heart, Remy LeBeau,” she murmured reflectively.

            “Why?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette with feigned casualness and lighting another.

            “Because a thief like you will do everything in his power to steal it back.  And perhaps,” she added mischievously, “because I'd feel a little envious of her.”

            He leaned forward across the table, held her eyes unflinchingly - he was so close he could smell the heavy, heady scent of her perfume, intoxicating as opiate.

            “De night is still young, cherie.  How about I throw in a little bonus for de oh-so-useful information you've given me?”

            Her smile was red and sumptuous, yet faintly sardonic.

            “She's out there, isn't she?”

            “If I said yes, would it make any difference?”

            “Not to me,” she murmured back, her eyes greedily tracing his mouth. “But to you…” and she smiled, wide, knowing, “maybe.”

 -oOo-

            He rolled into _Louis's Place_ about half past one in the morning.

            He was feeling beat and disillusioned, but he didn’t feel quite ready to go back to the loneliness of his apartment just yet.  What he needed was to have people around him, people who would ask him no questions and would leave him alone, yet who would give him the sense that he was still connected to the real world.  And what he needed most of all was a very stiff drink.

            Louis was the proprietor of _Louis's Place_ , a short, stout yet sturdy man in his fifties with skin the consistency of unbaked pastry, whose wrinkles appeared to be lined with dust.  Louis had been in the business for years, so far as Remy could tell - the odd thing was, no one would be able to tell you if he was mutant or static; and if he was indeed a mutant, no one would be able to tell you what his power was.  He was silent and stoical to a fault - it was a known fact that he never said anything unless it was strictly worth saying, and even then he would communicate it to you in flat, deadpan tones.  Remy liked this about Louis - it meant that he didn’t have to say anything when he was in Louis' presence - but nevertheless, he always got the odd sense that Louis absorbed information through his eyes, like a strange form of photosynthesis.  Louis' eyes were rarely idle, and if there was any information anyone needed, it would be certain that if Louis had not heard it, he would at least have seen it.

            That night there were only one or two patrons left in the bar; Remy recognised them by sight and gave them short nods as he passed, which they returned, grim-faced.  Louis himself was behind the bar, cleaning a few dusty glasses with a dusty cloth.  Remy crossed the creaking wooden floor, seated himself at the beer-stained bar, and gestured for the usual.  Louis, as always, said nothing.  He merely stared at Remy a moment, marking his face in his mind; then, satisfied that he did indeed recognise him, set about fixing Remy's order of neat bourbon.  Nothing more needed to be communicated between the two.

            Remy slouched against the bar and contemplated his hands.  He'd got away without killing this night, and for some reason that had felt important to him.  In a way he preferred the intel jobs, they meant he didn’t have to get his hands dirty.

            Louis was suddenly there, slapping his drink in front of him.  It didn’t matter what anyone thought of his dingy little bar; what mattered was that he served the best drinks this side of town, a fact that was a well-kept secret.  Remy paid the exact amount plus a tip and sucked on his drink gratefully, swivelling only slightly to look up at the TV above the bar.  The late-night news was on, and he grimaced distastefully.  He needed a dirty movie to round off his night, that was what.  He was too exhausted for more of the real thing.

            _“And in the latest update on the Trask Technologies scandal, a recent report has confirmed that Trask Technologies' Assistant Director, Troy Rifkind, has been fired from his job after it was claimed that he was the intruder who broke into the Trask Technologies database last Friday night.  It has been alleged that he stole important files listing details on all known mutants currently residing in North America, and that he subsequently deleted those files in an act which many have said will set back progress on the Mutant Control Act for years to come… Rifkind has vehemently protested his innocence, despite several witnesses having claimed they saw him enter the Trask Technologies' 'Core' - where all company information is stored and held - at the time the relevant files were said to have been downloaded…”_

            Remy swirled his glass round idly, listening only passingly to what was being said on the TV.

            “Louis, change the goddamn channel!” hollered someone from the back of the bar, but Louis ignored him, his bottomless eyes trained on the TV with an intent most insects would've reserved for their prey.

            _“Subsequent FBI investigations into Troy Rifkind's movements over the past month have so far revealed few details pertinent to the case.  Special Agent Jack Shaw gave a statement that whilst some of his frequent visits to the Ritz and various New York casinos and gambling dens have led to speculation about his private life, there is nothing to suggest any reason he might have had in sabotaging Trask Technologies' database.”_

            “Louis?” Remy asked the man still absently wiping the same glass behind the bar. “What d'you know about de Hounds?”

            _“…Having made a detailed investigation into Troy Rifkind's movements over the past month, we have found little to tie him to the Trask Technologies inquiry at present.  He made a questionable visit to the Ritz on the Wednesday leading up to the incident, where he was said to have been meeting a dubious business associate…”_

Louis's eyes moved from the TV to Remy with a penetrating glare.

            “Depends,” he answered in a voice like gravel, like a boulder rumbling downhill. “What do you want to know?”

            Remy considered.

            “Do you know who any of dese Hounds actually _are_?”

_“…However, having questioned this so-called associate, we have no reason to believe that he had anything to do with the Trask Technologies' incident, nor was their meeting related to it.  However, on account of that meeting at the Ritz, we have been obliged to press charges against Mr. Rifkind on unrelated drugs offences.”_

            Louis' face tightened; for the first time he lowered his lids, his face as taut as a bowstring.

            “No one knows,” he replied at last. “No one wants to know.  Hounds aren't human.  Not anymore.  No kin.  No loved ones.  Just animals.”

            _“…Thus far Mr. Rifkind has declined to make any comment…”_

            Remy gazed down into his glass, stared at the deep brown pool of liquid within. He could still taste Viper's hard kisses in his mouth, no matter how much of the stuff he drank.  It was a bitterness he couldn’t wash down, that had stained his tongue and his stomach and his heart.

            “Need a distraction?” Louis spoke, deadpan, from behind the counter.

            “Nuh-uh,” Remy muttered, throwing back the rest of his drink. “No more distractions.  Not tonight.”

            Because there was something on his mind, and it wasn’t just _her_.  It was the Hounds.  The glee with which his employer spoke of them.  He couldn’t work it out, but something big was going on behind that unfathomable mind, and he didn’t like it.  He didn’t like it when he couldn’t see into that mind.  It never boded well. It was far better to be drunk, far better to be senseless than to ponder on any of it.

            He ordered another drink, and then another.  By the time the sun had risen he was still there, still stooped over the bar and trying not to sleep, a curious memory of silk and porcelain replaying in his mind.

 -oOo-

            The next few months passed in a haze.  By the end of spring he was feeling frustrated and managed to spend some time with Rita, most of which he spent talking about Rogue instead.  Rita listened with patience and equanimity, but there was always a faint frown on her face as she did so.  She'd long given up lecturing him on this particular obsession of his, and besides, there wasn’t much more she could say on the subject without repeating herself.

            So she lay there next to him and stared at the ceiling, until he realised he was going round in circles and the conversation turned to business.

            “So who's on your agenda now?” she asked him when he'd given up talking about Rogue.

            “Some guy.  Madrox.  De Multiple Man.” Remy sat up, knees hunched under the covers, and lit up a cigarette.  He offered her one, but Rita declined, since she was quitting for about the fiftieth time in her humdrum life. “Guy was loosely affiliated wit' Xavier's brood, at one point,” he continued blandly. “Probably not when I was there though, since I don't recall him.”

            Rita glanced up at him, interest finally sparking in her pale blue eyes.

            “What was it like then, Rems?  Running with the X-Men?”

            “Dunno.” He shrugged. “Like bein' in church and listenin' to de priest makin' his sermon 24/7, I guess.”

            She laughed.

            “That bad?”

            He mused on it for a moment.

            “Maybe not _dat_ bad.” A half-smile shadowed his lips. “Dere were some good t'ings about it.”

            “Like your nameless Rogue?” she quizzed sardonically.

            “Amongst other t'ings.” He looked down at her and grinned. “De eye candy at dat place was impeccable.”

            “Yeah,” she remarked, her eyes going wistful. “Like that Wolverine guy.  He was so _hot_.”

            Remy grunted sceptically.  He'd never understood what it was about the hairy pygmy that had driven girls wild.  Not to mention there had never been any love lost between the two of them.

            “About that Multiple Man,” Rita broke in, changing the subject briskly, “maybe you should get in contact with some of the other underground mutant organisations.  You ever considered it?”

            “I work alone unless I have to,” he muttered ungenerously. “I don’t need no one's help.”

            “But you need mine, right?” He glowered and she continued with a sigh: “Listen, the reason I'm suggesting it is that maybe they know some things that you don’t.  Ever since what happened at Trask Technologies last year, top-secret info on every single mutant known to the government has been floating around in the air like dandelion seeds, right there for you to catch.  Maybe it's something you should check out.”

            “Pfft,” Remy sounded flippantly. “Whoever took de trouble to hack into Trask's database ain't gonna go round sharin' his winnings wit' all and sundry.  If it was me, or anyone else wit' half an ounce o' sense, I woulda kept de information close to my chest and played it for keeps.  Dis guy, he's probably spreading misinformation, just t' keep de government on its toes.  I'd bet you a thou no one knows what's really in those files but him.”

            “ _Him_?” Rita raised an indignant eyebrow at him. “What makes you think it's a _him_?”

            He frowned at her.

            “Huh?”

            “Well, no one knows it's a _he_ that stole the info,” she reasoned evenly, though there was an element of defiance in her tone. “Sounds to me like it was a woman.”

            He gave a bark of a laugh.

            “How de fuck d'you know?” he scoffed, though he was inwardly curious.  Sometimes Rita came out with the most ridiculous things, things that more often than not held a grain of truth.

            “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Just feels more like something a woman would do.”

            “Right.” He cocked an eyebrow dubiously. “Is dis just more of dat female intuition crap?”

            “Call it what you like, it's come in useful more often than not,” she retorted caustically.

            “Hmm.” His lips were still twisted into a cynical grimace. “Well, whoever did it, dey got de smarts, dat's for sure.” He paused, studied the glowing tip of his cigarette reflectively. “I wonder if dey found out anyt'ing about de Hounds?”

            “The Hounds?” Rita was staring up at him questioningly again.  He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, then placed the cigarette back in his mouth.

            “It's not'ing,” he returned in his usual blasé manner, throwing her a charming smile. “Just a thought.”

 -oOo-

            The Hounds.

            What was it about the Hounds?

            Why was it so important to know how to deprogram them?

            Was it merely intellectual curiosity, or was it something more?

           

            Remy leaned against the wall and flipped the Ace of Spades between his fingers, stared at the red door opposite him, the one marked '554'.  He was still thinking about it weeks later.  If he could just figure out this question he’d be staring right into the window of his boss' mind.  He'd have the upper hand for once.  He'd have the knowledge, he'd have the power.

            He'd have the power to walk away.

            It was no use.  He didn’t get it.  He didn’t understand what it was his employer wanted most in this world.  Anymore than he understood what _she_ wanted.

            And that meant that he had no power over her either.

            He pushed himself off the wall and deftly flipped the card back into the pouch at his belt.  That was why he was here of course.  Nearly six months had passed before he'd finally made the time to come back to the safe house.  It had been at the back of his mind for weeks and weeks now, but he'd managed to stave it off until the very last minute when he couldn’t hold out any longer.  Maybe it was the privacy.  Maybe it was the fact that this was the only place where he felt there were no prying eyes.  Maybe it was because in this place he truly felt he had a life outside of work, outside of what he did.  Here, he had an interior life, he had thoughts and he had feelings, he had all sorts of dangerous and subversive urges that he couldn’t control.

            Until he solved the problem of the Hounds, this was where he could come and find a little freedom.

            He stabbed the key in the lock, felt it give with a soft _click_.  He pushed the door open.  He walked inside.  Dust and musk invaded him, but he was used to it, he ignored it.  He threw himself down on the creaky armchair, looked about the room and pondered.

            He wondered whether she ever came back too.  It was quite possible.  She could pick locks after all - he'd seen her do it.  Maybe she came back and lay on the bed when she had a little time to herself; maybe she slept for a few hours and pretended he was there with her.  Or maybe it was too dangerous for her.  Maybe they would ask her questions.  Of course he had no idea who 'they' were, but he had no doubt that 'they' existed.  Maybe they didn’t give her much free time; maybe they didn’t like her getting involved in anyone else's agenda.

            No, she definitely didn’t come here, he decided.  It was too risky.  It was indulgent.  Redundant.  Frivolities like that had no place in the life of an outlaw and a freedom fighter.

            Yet he was here, wasn’t he?

            He rose from the chair, agitated, and went to the window.  It was the same view - the same wasteland, the same dusty stone slabs covering the same dirty quadrangle, the same crumbling buildings that had been marked for demolition the past five years.  No one that mattered lived here anymore, except for him and a recurring dream that he dreamt once a year.

            He gripped the windowsill and frowned.

            _I walk de edge, I don’t take sides and I play for me.  No one knows what I want, no one knows who I am._

_No one has a hold over me._

            Down on the square below, that same old mangy mutt he'd seen the winter before - the one that belonged to the homeless mutant - was chasing its tail round and round in plaintive circles.

            “No one…” he murmured to himself.

            _So what keeps you here?_ Viper had asked him.

            And he should have answered, _the lure of something I can't have, the thrill of something that I can't touch and I can't hold -- that I can never hold._

            This butterfly he couldn’t pin down, however hard he tried.

            _Yah can't pin this butterfly down, sugah.  This one's got toxic wings.  Touch her and you'll get burnt._

            She'd already burned him, she'd already left a horrible scar, and it wouldn’t heal, it wouldn’t go away.

            He stepped away from the window, his brow furrowed.

            “You don’t know who I am, chere,” he whispered. “You don’t know what I want, you can't give it to me and you just don’t get it.”

            Because what he wanted was freedom, what he wanted more than anything - more than love and knowledge and power and riches - was to walk the path he chose, a path free from the dictates of Fate.

            _And once I find out 'bout de Hounds, once I find out what's so special about them, I'm free, I get to walk._

            He made up his mind.  Without another thought he strode out of the room, he walked away.

           

            He knew what he was going to do.

 -oOo-

            There were a lot of people that lived in the sewers these days - the statics thought it was fitting, since their inhabitants were lower than rats anyway.

            The difficulty was in locating the person that you wanted.

            A long time ago - or at least what felt like a long time ago - the Manhattan sewers were inhabited by a group of mutants known as the Morlocks.  Since the current government had declared martial law against all mutants, many of the Morlocks had either been killed or incarcerated; those that were left had been scattered, and their few meagre numbers fragmented.  Their one-time leader, Callisto, was long dead.  There was no one left to guide them, to rally them.  Most were vulnerable and dispossessed.  They had no homes to turn to, no families to take care of them.  Most were left to fend for themselves.

            Leech had once been one of their number, before the military had arrested him, before Remy had kidnapped him and sold him on.

            It was still a stain that blotted his mind, sometimes, in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep.

            The niche he was hiding in was small, cramped, filthy, and stank worse than the regular U-bend.  Remy didn’t care.  He was biding his time, and when he was biding his time he could wait for the moon to come round and still not even twitch a muscle.  He could be as persistent and ruthless as a sniper when he needed to be, stalking his prey with infinite patience.  And until his prey appeared, there was no movement, no thought, no force in the world that could distract him.

            _Splish._

            Crouched low in his little hideout deep within the tiny recess, Remy's ears pricked up.

            _Splash._

            Remy swung his head round slowly in the direction of the sounds.  Footsteps.  In water.  His eyes burned like coals in the darkness of the niche.

            Presently the footsteps came closer, until he could finally make out their source in the gloomy dimness…

            A gaunt, grey-skinned mutant loped past the niche in the wall, neither sensing nor noticing Remy's presence.  He walked with the lolloping gait of an ape, with the bent knees, the sagging shoulders, the deformed arms that hung too low at his sides.  But there was none of the strength and sturdiness of the ape in this mutant.  His limbs had the appearance of matchsticks strung together with sinew, giving the effect that one could break them with just the lightest of touches.  The face was grim, haggard, as though locked in an eternal struggle with itself.  Wary, haunted, this was a creature as wasted and shrivelled in on itself as a revenant.

            Remy didn’t have time to feel sorry for it.

            With a fluid grace he leapt out of his hiding place, landing in the muck and the mire with a purposeful splash.

            The matchstick mutant seemed to bristle, his body so tense it was as if it would shatter of its own volition.  And then he was swinging round on those spindly legs, fixing dull, amphibian eyes on Remy, who said nothing, who stood there presenting nothing but himself and his purpose, that he meant no harm.

            Recognition filled the dull eyes, then fear.  The gaunt mutant gasped, turned and fled, sloshing through the murky waters and into the darkness.

            “Caliban!” Remy called, but it was no use - the Morlock wasn’t going to listen, he was too panicked.

            _What does it take t' get a little trust these days…?_

            Silent, jaw set, Remy whipped the quarterstaff from his belt.  It extended with a loud _shuck_ , and he sent it spinning off into the inky blackness with a casual flick of the wrist.

            In the distance there was a faint thud and a short, pitiful groan.

            _Splash._

            Remy found Caliban a few yards down the tunnel, spluttering in the shallow water, dazed and trying to get up.  Quietly, callously, Remy picked up his quarterstaff and held it menacingly to the emaciated Morlock's throat, whose eyes were bulging up at him in sheer terror.

            “P-p-please,” the mutant whimpered miserably, “p-please don’t hurt me.  You've come to take me, haven't you?  Please, I'm begging you, don’t do it.  Kill me if you have to, just don’t take me to _them_ …”

            Met with this cowering submission, even Remy could not help but be touched.  Still, he had no time for sympathy.  That wasn’t why he was here.  If he started feeling sorry for every Morlock he met, he wouldn’t have time for anything else.

            “I'm not here t' take you away,” he replied calmly, coolly. “I'm not one of 'them'.  I just want t' talk.”

            Caliban's eyes were bulging crazily, whether due to starvation or terror or sheer insanity Remy couldn’t tell.

            “I don’t believe you!” he whined pitifully. “I know you!  Remy LeBeau, Gambit!  I know what you did to the Morlocks, what you _still_ do to mutants!” He squeezed his eyes tight shut, his whole body quivering beneath the weight of the quarterstaff, as if he were gathering all the courage left inside him for this one single moment, and suddenly he squeaked: “They've been after me too, they have!  They need me because I know!  I _know_ , I do, and they find that useful, but I won't let them get me and I won't let _you_ get me either!  So do me a favour and kill me now, Remy LeBeau, Gambit!  Put me out of my misery, I have nothing left to offer anybody!”

            Remy stared down at the shuddering mutant, alternate waves of pity and disgust washing over him.  He squinted down at that pale, thin face, said: “You're wrong.  You _have_ somet'ing t' offer me, and I ain't gonna leave until I get it.”

            Caliban's eyes were still shut tight, as though to refute the very world in doing so.

            “You lie!” he spat. “I don’t believe you.  A thief and a liar once, _always_ a thief and a liar!  Just like _them_.  And I'll not join them!”

            “ _Them_?” Remy inquired sharply. “Who's _them_?  Ahab and his fucked up cronies?  They want to turn you into a Hound?”

            _What a coincidence…_

            Caliban said nothing, but squirmed and whimpered like a dog in the dirt.  Remy swore.  He was losing his patience.

            “Lissen t' me,” he rasped down at the cringing Morlock. “If dere's one t'ing I hate in dis fucked up world it's a Hound.  And whatever you may t'ink of me, I ain't gon' sell another mutant over to dat bastard Ahab.  Believe it or not, I ain't here on business.  Dis is personal. I would get someone else t' help me out on dis case, but dey're kinda slow and right now I'm an impatient man, so dat's why I'm here wit' your sorry ass right now -- and _not_ because of some screwed up deal I might have wit' Ahab or any of dat bastard scum!” He leaned in, hissed threateningly: “Now are you gonna help me or not?”

            At some point during this speech Caliban had opened his eyes and though Remy was by no means acting in a friendly manner, he seemed to have exuded some sort of sincerity, because the Morlock had stopped shaking and had calmed somewhat.

            “I-If I tell you,” he stuttered, daring to prop himself up a little on his elbows, “will you promise to go away, and never bother me again?  That you'll never tell anyone you found me?”

            Remy sneered.

            “If you can take de word of a so-called thief and a liar, then yes, I promise.”

            “I-I mean it!” Caliban cried in sudden agitation. “No more questions, no more visits!  I want to be left in peace!  I don’t want any more part of it, any more part of _this_!  Living my life from day to day, living like everyone else's pawn, like I have no future, like I have to stagger from one present to the next!  If you ever want anymore information from me you'll have to kill me, I mean it!”

            “I've given you my word,” Remy replied quietly, his voice wavering with repressed anger. “Now will you do dis t'ing for me or not?”

            Caliban's eyes shot this way and that, then finally darted back to Remy.  After a while, he nodded.

            “All right.  Tell me who it is you're looking for.”

            Remy retracted the quarterstaff, and with a rapid, almost imperceptible movement, had slid it back into his belt.  He opened his mouth, but at the very last split second he changed his mind, and before he could stop it a different word was on his tongue, blooming, flowering, escaping…

            “Rogue,” he said.

            _Merde…_

            Caliban's eyes widened, frog-like.

            “The X-Man?”

            “Oui.” Remy nodded briefly.

            _Fuck…_

            “No, no!” Caliban squeezed his eyes shut again, shook his head frantically. “I won't sell X-Men either!  X-Men are good people, they helped the Morlocks!  I won't let you hurt them!”

            Remy rarely ever lost his temper but that did it.

            In one foul swoop he'd picked up the Morlock by the scruff of his collar, dragged him out of the water and to his feet.

            “Lissen t' me,” he seethed to the scrawny mutant, who was now staring at him again with that tremulous, amphibian gaze. “Tradin' in X-Men is _not_ what I do.  I was an X-Man too, once.  T'ink what you like about dat, but it's de truth.  Now what happens t' dis girl is important to me, and I ain't got time t' lissen to you weepin' and wailin' about how fucked up your life is, 'cos guess what?  You ain't de only one.” He shoved Caliban away from him, who staggered backwards, only managing to stay upright on those gangly, spindly legs with an effort. “Now tell me where she is!”

            “I can't!” Caliban clasped his hands to his head and looked like he was about to rip out fistfuls of hair.

            “Whaddaya mean, y' can't?!” Remy growled.

            “My power!  I can only detect mutants within a twenty-five mile radius…” Caliban dropped his hands, breathed in heavily before continuing disconsolately: “She comes and goes.  In and out.  I-I don’t know where she is right now, but--”

            “Where does she go?  Where was de last time you saw her?” Remy demanded ravenously.

            “I-I…”

            “Tell me.”

           

            Ten minutes later, when he was top-side again with this new piece of information in his hands -- only then did it occur to him just how foolish he had been.

            The location of the Hounds, of the X-Men… his freedom, dust on the wind.  Thrown away for a woman he couldn’t have and he couldn’t keep.

            He stared back at the manhole he'd just emerged from.  It was too late to go back now.

            _You're a fool, LeBeau.  A fuckin' fool._

            Not that it mattered anymore.  Because that was the last Remy ever saw of the Morlock named Caliban.

 -oOo-

-END OF PART FOUR-


	15. Dealings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue discovers that her part to play in the Troy Rifkind fiasco has been discovered, and manages to do some last minute damage limitation with the help of Gambit.

\- PART FIVE -

_Summer 2011_

            Six months had passed since the mission with Rifkind. Summer had enveloped New York City with a cloying thickness; the days were longer, but the streets were grimier, somehow compensating for the lack of winter dark.

            Rogue stood on a street corner and idly watched a couple of static girls walk into a posh boutique across the road, giggling, joking, oblivious to anything outside their own lives.  Overhead, lingering somewhere between the next two blocks, Rogue could make out the looming and expressionless face of a Sentinel, its black and beady eyes scouring the street below for mutants.  Ever since the debacle at Trask Technologies there had been a very public and inevitable clampdown on mutant activity.

            Rogue felt somewhat guilty about her part to play in the whole thing.  The government was now keen to stamp down on any mutant it saw, not just the militant ones - poverty-stricken, homeless mutants were now being sent to internment camps in their droves, never to be seen or heard of again.  It was okay for her and the Brotherhood - Forge's nullifying devices were able to cloak the X-gene for short bursts at a time, effectively disguising their mutant status.  With that Sentinel on the horizon, Rogue would certainly not have been able to stand where she was right now without it.  Sometimes she would ask Forge why he didn’t just mass-produce his little devices and hand them out to mutants all over town.  He'd always reply that mass-production was impossible unless an underground factory was built and staffed - and besides, the devices were only worthwhile on mutants like her, mutants who could pass as humans.  The rest, like the Morlocks, would stand out a mile.

            Of course, one good thing had come out of the whole Trask Technologies affair.  Two days after the event had become public, she'd been watching TV at headquarters eating breakfast, when she saw that same handsome face on the screen, that same sandy hair and those same baby blue eyes.  Troy Rifkind had been walking away from a heaving crowd of press reporters, a hunted look on his face as he'd repeated over and over again: “ _No comment_.”  He'd been fired from Trask Technologies after it was discovered that it was _his_ keycard that had been used to gain access to the database.  Witnesses had even said they'd seen him access the files himself, though he had vehemently denied it through his subsequent trial.

            Rogue had watched the news that morning with an odd sense of triumph.  No one had asked her why she had hated Troy Rifkind so much.  Mystique had even casually pointed out that she had thought Rogue would find him a 'softer touch'.  The Brotherhood didn't know what had happened between them that night, and Rogue had no inclination to divulge that information.  Mystique had always suspected that it was something to do with the fact that Rogue had only returned the morning after (which Rogue had ended up being thoroughly chastened for), and Rogue had let her think that.  It was safer that way.

            Still, she wondered whether Rifkind had ever put two and two together and figured out that the source of his downfall had been none other than the mysterious and beautiful Anna Wagner, or whether she was still the winsome Southern gal who'd given him the best night of his life.

            Somehow, she hoped it was the former.  At least then her revenge on him would have been complete.

           

            Across the street, the static girls were coming out of the boutique again, laughing raucously.  Rogue thought she heard the word 'men' as they rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.  She stood with her hands in her pockets and gave a half sigh.  What she wouldn't do to be one of those girls even for one day, to live in blissful ignorance once more.  She now knew that there was at least something to be said for the stupid and the credulous after all.

            It was at that moment that a short, stocky, well-built yet slightly balding man exited from an unmarked building across the street, glanced furtively left to right, and carried on down the sidewalk, walking away from her.  Rogue nudged the sunglasses up over the bridge of her nose, pushed herself off the lamppost and followed him, keeping her distance from the other side of the road.  The man stumbled down the path - he was overdressed in a suit that seemed to be too small for him, and he was obviously sweating in the summer heat - he kept loosening his tie now and then, and the sparkle of sweat reflected on his forehead.  Though strong and stout, he was clearly agitated - he kept looking about him as if he expected someone to jump out at him.  Rogue's expression was impassive as she noted every detail of this man.  To anyone else she was an outsider, an incidental passer-by on the street - and that was exactly the way she wanted it.

            At least this time round her job would be simpler.  This insignificant man would be less than likely to have a power disrupter on him, and she would be able to absorb him, knock him out, steal his papers, and make her get-away.  Usually, this was a job that would have been done by one of the others, but she'd begun to resent the fact that she was given all the undercover, seduction ops, and she'd begged Mystique to give her something low-key.  Reluctantly, Raven had agreed, reminding Rogue pointedly that the undercover ops would still be hers no matter what.  Rogue hadn't cared.  All she wanted was something halfway decent and respectable for a change, something that she could come out of with even a modicum of self-respect.

            The man had slid into a cramped, dingy alleyway, disappearing out of sight.  Rogue quickly picked up her pace, crossing the road whilst only narrowly avoiding the traffic.  In her best impression of nonchalance, she sauntered past the alley and gave it a quick glance.  Empty.  Again with calculated insouciance, she backtracked, slipping inside the alleyway as the man had done before her.

            It was cooler here, and darker.  The dank, fetid smell of waste and refuse filled her nostrils, making her nose crinkle in disgust.  Carefully, she pulled off her shades, slid them inside her coat pocket.  The man was nowhere to be seen.

            The alley was littered with rubbish.  She had to pick her way through it - she had little doubt this was a place regularly used by junkies, seeing the cooks and hypes that were scattered everywhere.  The problem was trying not to make a sound.  There was barely any room to manoeuvre, and before she'd got halfway down the path, she'd already stepped on a glass needle.  It cracked with an ominous resonance, and she paused with bated breath.

            _Swish_.

            She started, looking up.  Something had jumped between the buildings over her head, and its shadow had only just fleetingly caught her eye… She froze for a long while, waiting for any sign or signal that it was anything untoward.  A minute later, and still nothing.  She shook herself.

            _Musta been a cat…_

            She began to pick her way through the trash again, until finally it petered out, and on the building to her left she was faced with a set of double doors, one of which had been left slightly ajar.  She scaled the surrounding area with her eyes, searching for any other escape routes.  Nothing.  Then her man must have come through here.

            She slipped off her heavy duster - underneath which she wore her usual black bodysuit - rolled it up, and deposited it behind a nearby dumpster along with her pack.  Then she edged herself between the double doors, and into the room within.

            It was the shell of an old warehouse.  Dust flittered in the milky sunlight that poured in from several smashed windows.  The rest of the room was wreathed in dark black shadow.  Again, her man was not to be seen.  At the other end of the room, there was another door, again slightly ajar.  Rogue inched her way towards that door, keeping to the shadows.  From the adjoining room, she could hear voices, low mutterings in two distinct male voices.  She paused.  She needed to find a better line of attack.  Two against one wasn't good odds at all.  She needed to find somewhere that could give her the element of surprise…

            She scanned the room, looking for another means of accessing the other room.  Looking up, she saw beams.  And up in the opposite wall, a hatch, obviously once having been for passing goods from one room to another, the door hanging from one of its hinges.

            With skilled and practiced stealth, she tested one of the shelves standing next to her. Finding it strong enough, she clambered up onto it, moving up it with a lithe grace.  Once at the top, she swung herself up onto a nearby beam, lying flat on her stomach.  The hatch was some twenty yards away, and she had very little time to navigate it.  Gritting her teeth, she set to work.

            She was grateful for all those hours in the Danger Room, for all the time Mystique had spent honing her physical skills.  She crawled the roof-space like some wiry insect.  It was only a couple of minutes before she had slipped through the hatch, and was now in the adjoining room.  Muscles tense and aching, sweat beading on her brow, she managed to scramble onto a nearby beam without so much as a sound, scaling it until she reached the centre of the room.  It was only then, when she was in the safest and most advantageous place she knew she could be in, that she looked down.

            There was her man, nervously adjusting his tie, urgently whispering to a taller, lankier, somehow more commanding man in a navy blue suit and a red tie.

            “I don't know why,” the balding man was saying in a stammer to the taller, more confident man, “but I got the feeling I was being followed when I came down here.  I think maybe we should keep our eyes open.  You never know with those rebel mutants.  For all we know, they could be in this room with us, right now.”

            “If that was the case,” the taller man said in a harsher, yet strangely familiar voice, “you should have doubled up on your way here, and made sure they lost you…”

            The man looked up, scanning the ceiling with his eyes and suddenly his gaze seemed to be right on her, boring into her… And in that split second Rogue saw that she was staring into the face of none other than Bolivar Trask. 

            The force of the revelation was so shocking that she almost slipped off her hiding place; but his gaze swept over her with no sense of recognition or acknowledgement, and the next moment she felt a warm hand press against the small of her back, steadying her, just quickly enough for her to regain her balance…

            Startled, but not threatened by this unexpected presence, she jerked her head sideways - and there _he_ was, crouched on the beam right next to her.  At the sight of him her heart gave an involuntary palpitation, but he pressed a quick finger to his lips and pointed down to the two men below.  Nevertheless she saw his eyes flash in a semblance of greeting, and she half-nodded, reverting her attention back to the small party below.

            “The room's clear,” Trask was saying in an irritated tone. “But if your instincts are right, we should watch ourselves.  I'm taking a great risk coming to see you, Guess.  What is it that was so important it required _my_ presence?”

            “Golden information, sir,” simpered the other man, “for your ears only.”

            “Really?  Then get on with it.”

            “Well, I went and saw Rifkind, like you asked.  He said he didn't remember anything strange about that night, so I used my mutant power on him, like you told me to.  And there _was_ something that didn't seem right…”

            He paused, wiping sweat from his brow - Trask grunted impatiently.

            “Of course there wasn't something right!  Idiotic though Rifkind is, there is no way he would've divulged such sensitive information to so many of the wrong people!  And yet many witnesses saw him enter the Core at the time the information was accessed and disseminated!  There have been rumours that he was being impersonated by a shapeshifter… If such a scandal broke out; if they knew a mutant could break into our most sensitive systems…!” He halted, passing a hand over his brow, and when he next spoke his voice was calm, controlled, yet cold and threatening. “This had better be good, Guess - you know that it's only because of _my_ influence that you are allowed to even walk the streets - and even this I only allow because you are of use to me, and because you can pass for a pure human - mutant scum though you are.”

            Rogue felt something in her blood boil at these words, and she wanted nothing more than to jump down there and kill those men at that very moment; but again she felt that calming touch on the small of her back, and when she turned, she saw him pointing out two specific corners of the room.  Sure enough, there in the blackness, she could make out two looming, stationary shadows, waiting, watchful.  Bodyguards.  Of course Trask wasn't stupid enough to come in on his own…

            Down below, Guess was simpering and fawning.

            “I assure you, Mr. Trask, this intelligence will be highly interesting to you.” He paused, produced a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead with a shaking hand. “As I was saying… Rifkind didn't recall anything strange about that night, but when I plucked his memories of that evening, there was someone, an incidental and accidental someone who wouldn't have seemed out of the ordinary at all, except that they looked suspiciously familiar…”

            “You're rambling, Guess,” Trask scowled at him. “Get to the point.”

            “All right, all right.” Guess took a deep breath. “That night he met a girl with a white streak in her hair.”

            The phrase immediately seemed to catch Trask's interest.  Up above on the beams, Rogue froze.  Did Trask know about her?  Did he know about the Brotherhood?  Worse still, was Guess going to tell Trask what had happened that night, with Remy right there beside her…?

            “A white streak, hmm?” Trask was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The description does seem familiar…”

            “Five years ago, during the first culling of the super-powered mutants, a girl of the same description went missing - one of the X-Men, I believe.  She was never found… Indeed, it isn't even known if she is still alive… There was a flurry of interest, at the time.  Of course, this may be of negligible significance… Still, you must admit, the coincidence is there, Mr. Trask…”

            “But then,” Trask replied shrewdly, “while there aren't many girls with white-streaks running round New York, there are bound to be more than one.  There's no evidence that they were one and the same person…”

            “No, I'm not suggesting that…But you'll admit, it _is_ interesting…” He halted, dug into his breast pocket, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I just got these printed off - they're stills from a duplicate copy of the security video taped at the Ritz that night.”

            He passed the photos to Trask, who looked at them with interest.  From her position, she could make out a few of them - pictures of her that night at the Ritz, checking in, entering her room, heading for the bar that evening… Luckily he stopped short of any that may have shown her with Rifkind.

            “She signed in under the name of Anna Wagner,” Guess continued. “An assumed name of course… But the funny thing is, there was no record of her ever having signed out that night - nor do any of the security tapes show her leaving the building.  It's as if she vanished into thin air.”

            He paused, leaving a silence loaded with meaning.  Trask looked up from the photos, his eyes now glittering.

            “Perhaps she left as another guest… Perhaps she's the shapeshifter we're looking for.”

            “My thoughts exactly,” Guess nodded.

            By now Rogue was shaking violently, and it was down to more than just fear, or trepidation.  It was rage, it was violence… Now her face had been hijacked, as well as her body…

            Trask rifled through the photos a little more, then handed them back to Guess, a small smirk on his face.

            “Well done, Guess, very well done indeed.  You are to be congratulated.”

            Guess' face beamed, but stopped short of smugness.

            “Of course we'll have to check those security tapes again and see if there are any anomalous moments where the same person checked out twice -”

            “Naturally.”

            “- But other than that I do believe we've found our woman.”

            There was a small, appraising smile on Trask's face - he was nodding slightly, staring at Guess with narrowed eyes.  After several moments he broke the silence, saying: “I suppose the copy of that tape is in your possession at this very moment?”

            “Of course, Mr. Trask, sir.”

            “And I take it you would be willing to sell that tape - and these stills - to me? For a price?”

            Guess gave a nervous laugh.

            “I'm so glad we can understand one another so thoroughly, Mr. Trask…”

            Trask looked back over his shoulder, at one of the bodyguards lurking in the corner, and gave him a slight, imperceptible nod.  Wordlessly, the man emerged from the shadows, a large black briefcase in his hands.  Trask turned back to Guess.

            “Show me the tape,” he said.

Guess, who now looked anxious, reached inside his breast pocket with a slightly shaking hand, and produced a glimpse of the tape, before very quickly and furtively stuffing it back in his suit.  At the very sight of it Rogue's trembling became so violent that her knuckles were white as she gripped the beam, trying to steady herself.  Trask was trading in her, exchanging her for money… He was going to be able to see her face, her movements, every moment she'd spent in the bar with Rifkind, every sick second in the elevator up to his penthouse suite … Something white flashed in her mind, raw and pure rage, desperation… At all costs Trask must _not_ know who she was, must never touch that part of her life she wanted no other to touch…

            She was stirring, she was moving, and she felt Remy's hand on her back in urgent warning, but she was beyond that, she was beyond all reason, all logic… she was jumping, falling towards her quarry…

            And even as she leapt from the beam she felt a wall of static in the air behind her, the faint crackling of energy making every hair on her body stand on end; a sudden flash of blinding, pink eldritch light flooded the room like a starburst, but she didn't stop to heed it, her feet had already slammed into the wooden floor below her and she had grabbed a hold of Guess, her mind flashing black and white, her muscles contracting, bursting with an inhuman effort and…

            _KA-BOOM!_

Dust had filled the room in a dense and smoky cloud and there was coughing behind her, to her left, to her right… She couldn't see… Bits of the beams, of the roof were creaking, crumbling, raining down on them and still, she couldn't see…

            …But Guess was still in her grasp and she was hurling him with all the might she possessed, in a titanic display of raw strength she'd never known she possessed, and he flew through the air like a baseball, smashed through the door and into the adjoining room with an almighty _CRASH!_ …

            Behind her there were thuds and screams, but Rogue paid it no heed.  She was already going after Guess, heading for the splintered door she'd thrown him through and into the room beyond.  At some point she came out of the billowing cloud of smoke and dust and onto the other side, and there, sprawled out on the wooden floor, looking terrified and with his nose a broken and bleeding mess, was Guess.

            She leapt on him before he could get to his feet, and the next moment she had her hands round his throat, her rage a palpable thing inside her, throbbing in her veins, hammering in her head, pounding behind her eyes…

            “ _Why…_ ” was all she could breathe, over and over, “ _WHY_ …?”

            His eyes were bulging as he stared up at her, half from fear, half from recognition, and his voice was hoarse, squeaky when he said: “ _You_ …”

            But she didn't care, she didn't _want_ to care; she was gritting her teeth so hard that it hurt, and her hands were strangling him but she couldn't stop squeezing, she couldn't stop squeezing…

            “ _Why?_ ” she breathed again, her eyes and her throat both stinging, and it wasn't from the smoke but something more… “Why did you do it?  You're a mutant too… They _hate_ yah… They'd never letcha stay alive… You're one of us… Why did you betray us, why did you _do_ it…?”

            Anguish was spilling into her voice and before she even had time to check herself the tears were tumbling down her cheeks, because everything she'd fought for - for the sake of mutants, for the sake of the X-Men, for the sake of Xavier's dream… Everything she'd ever sacrificed for them, all the terrible things she'd done to protect them… He'd thrown it all back in her face…

            But his face, though a pinched and bloody, broken mess, was defiant, his eyes scornful as he looked back at her with something akin to disgust.

            “You think I'm a traitor, do you?” he spat. “You think I've betrayed mutantkind?  Don't make me laugh!  You're the one who's the traitor, stirring things up, creating even more bad blood between the mutants and the baseline humans… Look at the purges going on outside in the city because of people like you!  It's the innocent who suffer, the poor, ordinary mutants who can't afford to fend for themselves, the young, the sick, the invalids… Do you think they thank you when the Hounds come knocking round their door, when they're sent to die in internment camps?” He sneered at her, his expression one of pure loathing. “Yeah, maybe I'm a double-crosser, but at least I'm looking out for myself, and at least I have no pretensions, no illusions about who I am and what I do!  At least I don't think I'm some sort of mutant freedom fighter, someone who causes even more pain and misery for the people on the streets!”

            He halted, shaking under her grasp, but now with rage, not fear.  And at his words all her own rage had flooded out of her - it was as if all her anger had gone into him, and all his fear had seeped into her.

            “Yah don’t know…” she muttered under her breath, blinking back the tears. “Yah don’t know what it's like…”

            “Bullshit!” he seethed. “I know what it's like to live in pain!  All mutants do!  Do you think the fact that you're fighting the good fight makes you some sort of martyr to the mutant cause, that it makes you better than the rest of us?” He paused, his expression jeering. “I saw what you did with that guy Rifkind,” he hissed derisively. “Watching that video, it didn't take a genius to figure out how you got to him.  You're no freedom fighter.  You're nothing but a cheap whore.”

            _Shuck_.

            The sound sliced through his words, through her reeling mind like a hammer blow - it was as if time had stopped and silenced him forever.  It took a moment for her to realise that Guess was dead.  At first she thought that she had done it, but her fingers had been trembling too much to exert enough force on his throat to kill him… She dropped him suddenly as if contaminated, and it was only when he fell to the floor with a sickening thud that she saw the knife vibrating ominously in his heart.

            Shuddering, nauseous, she looked back over her shoulder.  Remy was standing in the broken doorway twenty yards behind her, his expression steely.  The adjoining room was deathly quiet.  She hadn’t even noticed that the fight within had ended.

            “You killed him,” she whispered, her voice sounding high-pitched, alien.  She hoped against hope he had not heard Guess' parting words to her…

            “He knew too much about you,” he explained, quite matter-of-factly; and she felt somehow reassured he'd heard nothing. “You really t'ink we could've let him live?”

            Rogue said nothing.  She knelt there in the dust and stared at Guess' staring eyes, his words consuming her numb and throbbing mind, over and over, over and over, making her put a hand to her mouth, making her gag…

            Remy walked up, placed a foot on Guess' flank, bent down, and pulled the knife out of his chest.  It slid out of his body with another thick _shuck_.

            “I took out de bodyguards,” he explained in an oddly conversational tone, while he wiped the blade on Guess' suit and slipped it back in the sheath at his thigh. “Trask got away though.  I guess we're lucky he was empty-handed.  Don't t'ink he saw either of us neither, since I was de one who had de smarts to get up dat smokescreen.” He was now casually rifling around inside Guess' pockets, and a second later, he'd produced the videotape.  Rogue stared at it, swallowing the gritty lump in her throat.

            “Ah'm sorry,” she apologised hoarsely. “Ah wasn't thinkin'… Ah just got so scared, so angry… Ah should've been able to keep my cool, it's what Ah was trained t'do.  If you hadn't been there…”

            She trailed off, staring once more into Guess' vacant eyes.  Remy said nothing, but stood, and offered her his hand.  She hesitated a moment before taking it, finding she really did need the support when she wobbled a little on unsteady feet.  He reached out an arm to stabilise her, touching her waist, but she pushed him away.  She didn't want him to touch her, not just yet.  She wasn't halfway ready for that yet.

            “Ah'm fine,” she insisted gruffly, but he shook his head.

            “No, you're not.  You lost your head back dere, and it could've cost more den jus' lives.  If I hadn'ta been dere dey could've captured you, tortured you, made you give up secrets dat could've gotten a whole bunch'a people killed.”

            She laughed weakly. “Ah would've liked t' see 'em try…”

            His eyes narrowed coldly as they perused her.

            “It ain't no joke, chere.  I seen what those bastards can do.  If they got their hands on you…” He trailed off, his eyes burning; then he lifted the videotape in his hand, said: “But now we got de body of evidence b'fore they did.  Neat, huh?”

            She ignored the comment, peered off into the adjoining room where the bodies of the bodyguards now lay, two formless, shapeless lumps on the floor.

            “And the stills?  The photos of me?”

            “Musta got burnt in de explosion,” he said.  There was a flash of pink light as he charged the tape - the next moment it had been incinerated and was nothing more than a cloud of soot and ash, floating to the ground. “Dat takes care of dat,” he grunted.  He paused, raised his eyes, looked at her. “You okay?” he asked, concern finally edging into his voice, into his face.  She glanced away, wiping at her eyes.  She'd stopped crying, but her cheeks were still tearstained and she rubbed them roughly too.

            “Ah- Ah'm fine,” she muttered, hating the fact that he'd seen her crying.  Then, inexplicably, something hit her. “Remy… Guess mentioned he'd made a duplicate of the original tape… That means the master copy is still back at the Ritz… There's still evidence that Ah was there that night…”

            Remy's eyes flashed briefly in the semi-darkness.  The next moment he had swung round and was making for the door.

            “Remy!” she called, a sudden fear growing tentacle-like inside her.  He stopped at the door, swivelled towards her, his face hard.

            “I'll go t' de Ritz,” he said, his voice low, resolved. “I'll get de master copy, destroy it.”

            Despite her fear, it was something she knew she couldn't let him do.

            “ _No_.” She walked up to him, stood within a few inches of him, looked him in the eye and said: “Ah ain't gonna let you do it.  This is _my_ call.  It was _my_ mission, and Ah fucked it up.  It ain't got a thing t' do with you.  Ah'm goin' t' the Ritz, and Ah'm gonna get that tape.”

            He returned her gaze, his eyes flaming red, his mouth a straight, angry line.

            “De fuck you are, Rogue,” he hissed. “You're a fuckin' mess, you can't expect me t' believe you could go in there right now and keep your head straight.  I dunno what got you goin' back there, but whatever it was I suggest you deal wit' it.  People like you an' me, in dis line of work - we can't afford t'be goin' and pullin' stunts like you pulled back there.”

            “All the more reason why Ah have t' be the one to go and sort it out!” she yelled at him, infuriated that he should be speaking to her like this, _him_ , a thief, a womaniser, a cold-blooded killer…!

            “All de more reason why you're gonna lay low and get yourself t' calm down,” he retorted, his voice wavering with anger. “Now you'd better listen t' what I tell you t' do, b'cause I ain't gonna stand here arguin' wit' you.  Trask got away and he's gonna be sendin' people down here real soon, and I want us t' be shot of dis place b'fore dat happens.  You and I both know he's gonna be headin' down t' de Ritz right now, aimin' t' get his hands on dat master copy b'fore we do.  Now we ain't got a lot of time, and you ain't got your head t'gether yet, so I'm gonna do dis favour for you, and you're gonna shut up and let me do it.”

            Something in his eyes communicated to her that he meant what he said, that this was just a favour to her, just another job; that he had no intention of prying into her affairs, as she had been so afraid he would.  She stared up at him dumbly, some form of hope finally allaying the doubt in her heart, and he reached out when she said nothing, placed his hands on her upper arms and said: “All I need is your trust in dis, chere.  Do you trust me?”

            His eyes, intent on hers, waiting for her answer, taking her breath away…

            “More than anythin',” she murmured, as if she had confessed something wonderful and terrible, and his lips had curled into a smile so beautiful, so reassuring that she wanted to lean forward and kiss it…

            “Then do what I tell you.  There's a place a couple of blocks down from here, a bar called _Louis's Place_.” He reached inside his duster for his wallet, flipped it open and slipped out a worn, battered and cheap-looking business card, handing it to her. “Louis is an old friend o' mine. Give him my name and he'll look after you till I come back for you.  And don't worry, Louis is in de business, he knows not to ask any questions.” He tucked his wallet back inside his pocket as if having just concluded a transaction. “I'll come an' pick you up around seven.  Make sure you lie low and don't spill a word t' anyone till then.”

             He turned, the matter having been concluded to his mind; but she still wasn't ready, there was still so much she needed to ask him…

            “Remy…”

            He halted, swung round in the doorway, and the words all surfaced in her mouth in one go and she couldn't get any of it out…

            “Good luck.”

            _Please come back t' me alive…_

            He smiled, and with a swish of his coat he had gone, leaving her alone once more with a cold and silent Guess.

-oOo-

            _Louis's Place_ turned out to be a rundown bar on the rough side of the town.  Louis himself was a sallow yet somehow sturdy-faced man in his fifties - whether mutant or not she could not tell.  When she'd mentioned Remy's name he'd shown no sign of recognition, but had led her wordlessly behind the bar and off into a side corridor, filled with old crates of beer and spirits.  At the end of the passageway he'd shoved aside a dusty old box of shot glasses with his foot, and pulled aside a frayed, canvas rug to reveal a well-concealed trapdoor.

            Still wordless (she began to wonder whether he was mute), he'd guided her down into another corridor, one that was a far cry from the one they'd just left upstairs.  It was bright and well lit - carpeted too, though not lavishly.  Many doors lined this corridor, and Louis stopped at a certain one, ignoring all the others, stabbed a key from his overloaded key ring into the lock, and opened it with a kind of flourish.  When she made no move, he gave an odd, vexed expression, and gestured for her to enter.

            It was exactly as if she'd stepped into a motel room.  There was a bed, and a TV, and a mini-fridge, and an en-suite bathroom, all cheaply yet efficiently decorated.  Before she could utter a word of thanks Louis had already closed the door behind her, leaving her there, alone.  She half expected to hear the key turn in the lock, but all she heard was his heavy footsteps walking back down the corridor and out of earshot.  She was free to do whatever she wished.

            Finally alone, finally safe, she felt an all-encompassing exhaustion suddenly descend over her.  Without thinking, she slumped onto the bed and slept.

           

            The clock read five-thirty when she awoke - on the dresser Louis had left her some food and an impressive array of drinks from wine to water.  He was, she thought wryly, a barman after all.  She got up and ate rather half-heartedly, though she chugged down as much water as she could.  By the time she had finished it was a quarter to six, and she had an hour and fifteen minutes to kill before Remy's return.  She wandered the room aimlessly, and while at first she had thought it typical of any old normal motel room, it was, as Remy had suggested, tailored to someone who was in 'the business'.  The bathroom cabinet was filled with pills and potions and whatnots; a first aid kit was tucked away inside the dresser.  Various weapons had been stashed in a cupboard in the corner; along with gun parts, ammo, knife sharpeners, even old crossbow bolts.  Under the bed were various bits of gadgetry she was sure Forge would've killed to get his hands on.

            While this amused her for a while, she soon became bored and decided to go for a wander, only to discover that almost all the doors in the corridor outside her room had been locked.  No big surprise there.  Only a dusty old storeroom had been left open, which contained only mundane food supplies, more crates of beer, and a couple of tool boxes.  By the time she'd finished it was still only six thirty and she still had half an hour to kill.

            Disheartened, she went back to her room to continue her wait in there.  She lay on the bed and twiddled her thumbs; seven O'clock came and Remy didn’t appear.  Another fifteen minutes passed and still he hadn't arrived.  She'd finally been motivated to go up to the bar and ask Louis where he thought he was at that point.  Louis, ever the tactician, had courteously pointed to the back passage once more, and she had been left to stomp off to her room feeling less than agreeable.

            It was another half hour before she heard the tread of familiar feet outside her door, and she'd managed to sit up just in time to greet him when he finally stormed into the room.

            “Remy…”

            He made no greeting, didn't even look at her, but went straight to the dresser and brought out the first aid kit.

            “You're late,” she breathed, confused as to why he was being so off with her.

            “Do me a favour, chere,” he remarked gruffly, ignoring her comment. “Next time we meet, remind me not t' offer t' get involved wit' your affairs.”

            She held her breath, at first thinking that he'd somehow seen what was on the videotape, seen her in that elevator with Rifkind… But when he finally turned and faced her, shrugging off his coat, she realised what he was talking about.

            “Remy, you're bleedin'!” she cried.

            “Hmph.  Bastards were ready for me.” He sank onto the bed and removed his shirt, revealing a myriad of cuts, welts and bruises. “Mission was tougher den I thought, hahn?”

            Rogue made no reply, bending over slightly and examining the wounds.

            “Remy, maybe you should go see a doctor…”

            “Yeah, right - and get asked all de funny questions?  Chere, you know better.” He opened up the kit, began to toss out disinfectant, sutures, bandages and other paraphernalia. “T'ink I cracked some ribs or somet'ing…but it ain't as bad as it looks - pretty much superficial, lucky me.  And besides, my mutant abilities'll make sure I heal up faster den normal… Don't got not'ing to worry ‘bout…”

            He opened up the bottle of disinfectant, ready to pour it onto the swabs, but she took the bottle off him before he could even begin.

            “It's mah fault,” she told him in a low voice when he gave her a questioning look. “Let me do it.”

            “Hmm.” He raised an eyebrow. “Dis gon' turn out like one of dose action movies when de guy finally gets de girl?”

            She half smiled, snatched the swabs off him too.

            “You already had me from act one, scene one, line one, Cajun.  So no, Ah don't think this is gonna turn into some movie cliché.  Unless you mean the blue kinda movie where the girl gets to inflict judicious pain on her man.  Because this is probably gonna hurt.”

            He grinned.

            “So hit me, chere.”

           

            He was an obliging patient, for the most part - he never wriggled, never complained, and never winced.  The fact that he didn't seem to mind at all made her feel a little less guilty about actually agreeing to send him off on the job in the first place.

            “It wasn't too bad, was it?” she asked, while she was busy finishing up taping his ribs - luckily she hadn't needed any of the sutures.  He gave a mere ghost of a shrug in reply.

            “Coulda been worse.  Dey was expectin' me, so naturally I was at a disadvantage.”

            She didn't know quite how to ask the next question.

            “Did you…did you kill them?”

            He shrugged again, wincing for the first time when the movement jarred his injuries slightly.

            “Had to, chere.  Dey'd seen my face.  I'm afraid dis whole crazy affair was too big to have any witnesses.  God knows what you've gotten yourself into, p'tit.”

            She grimaced.

            _Yeah, tell me about it…_

            “And the tape?”

            “Destroyed.  Torched it.  Torched de warehouse too.  T'ink we've covered our tracks pretty well for now, hahn?”

            She paused, sitting back to admire her handiwork.  Lucky Mystique had taught her first aid too.  The wounds had been easy to treat - they hadn't been half as serious as she'd first thought, and his body was already healing nicely.

            “You make a good nurse, chere,” he noted comically.

            “Don't get any funny ideas,” she told him archly, getting up to go into the bathroom and wash the utensils.

            “I dunno,” she heard him remark behind her. “I tend t' get funny ideas about you when you do de most mundane t'ings.  Like walk into a room.  Or breathe.  Or cross your legs.  Or when you do dat pouty t'ing wit' your lips.”

            She couldn't help but smile in spite of herself.

            “Ah don't recall yah ever havin' seen me cross mah legs,” she rebuked him.

            “You used to,” he replied, somewhat whimsically. “Back when we were in de X-Men.  You used t' do it sometimes when I hit on you.  Used t' make you go all prim an' proper, you'd sit dere wit' your legs crossed and give me dat look dat used to say, _make one more innuendo and I'll rip your head off, Remy LeBeau_.”

            She laughed.

            “That was years ago!”

            “Yeah, but for some reason it still sticks in my mind.”

            There was a short silence, during which she finished cleaning up; when she walked back into the room he was spread out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a pensive look on his face.

            “So _you_ were de one who was behind dat whole Trask Technologies t'ing,” he murmured out of the blue. “Didn't t'ink dat was your brand o' style, chere.  You ain't got de vindictive streak.”

            She snorted. “Wanna bet?”

            He looked at her sharply. “So it _was_ you?”

            She paused, packed away the first aid kit, wondering just how much she should reveal - but if he hadn't earned her trust by now, he'd never earn it.

            “That wasn't me,” she returned at last in a low voice, as she put the kit back into the dresser drawer. “Ah was just the one who got the keycard off Rifkind.  The night we met outside the Ritz… That was what Ah was doin'.”

            In the mirror, she could see him still looking at her with a thoughtful expression, but he didn't ask anything more on the subject.  He could guess perfectly well that whoever had orchestrated the Trask Technologies debacle was her superior, the one she took direct orders from.  Any more information would break the unspoken rules between them, and even if he'd asked her who it was, she wouldn't have answered him.

            “So,” she began, turning round to face him, “why exactly were you there at the warehouse today, Remy?  It was you, wasn't it, jumping across the roofs like the freakin' Energiser Bunny - right?”  _Even if Ah did think you were a cat at first…_

            “Just doin' my job, chere,” he replied with a bland smile.  She raised her eyebrows, surprised.

            “Your guys were tailin' Guess too?”

            “Yup.  Seems both our guys were justified in their interest, huh?  Fuckin' traitor was reportin' direct to Bolivar Trask hisself.  Glad I got a clean shot at de bastard.  I know you ain't into killin', chere… but he got what he deserved.”

            Rogue looked away, remembering Guess' words to her, those last hateful words before the knife had penetrated his heart with that thick, sickening thud.  The memory of what he had said to her had troubled her since she had left the warehouse - yet she had tried to push them away, refusing to believe his estimation of her and the Brotherhood had been right.  They were trying to _help_ mutants, to rescue them from slavery, torture and worse, not give them more misery… And yet something about what he had said had rung true, and she couldn't get it out of her head… And then there was what he'd called her.

            _A cheap whore…_

            “What did he say t' you?” Remy asked abruptly, jolting her from her reverie.

            “What?” she blurted.

            “Guess.  Before I snuffed him.  He was sayin' somet'ing t' you.  Musta been heavy, 'cos you were cryin'…” He paused, gave her a look that was a strange mixture of compassion and curiosity. “Ain't never seen you cry b'fore…”

            “It was nothin',” she replied quickly, in a tone that said _back off…_ He didn't take the hint.

            “Not'ing?”

            “ _Nothin'_.  Okay?  Let's drop it.”

            A gulf of silence settled between them and she could feel his eyes boring through her; but she couldn't return the look, knowing what it would cost her.  For the first time since they'd met that day, she felt it.  That tenuous yet unbreakable connection between them, one that was strengthening with every minute, every second that passed.  There, in the silence, each felt it thickening, deepening, making Rogue's throat close and the pit of her stomach stir.  She could feel it coming off him too, in waves, making her cheeks burn as she remembered how it had been when they'd last been alone together…

            She turned to fiddle awkwardly with some of the items on the dresser, but she could still feel him looking at her; she didn't dare look up into the mirror for fear of seeing his eyes on her own.

            _It's still there… this thing b'tween us…more than just need, or lust… Somehow it's gotten too deep, too serious… Ah don't even know how it happened, but it's there… And he feels it too…_

            She wondered whether it bothered him.  Whether it bothered him that he'd been willing to help her out of a tight spot, willing enough to kill for her.

            Gathering her courage, she turned, walked to the bed and sat down beside him.

            “Remy?” she asked softly, reaching out with a hand and absently tickling his navel, nevertheless still unable meet his gaze.

            “Hmm?”

            “Does it bother you?  Killin', Ah mean?”

            It was a long while before he finally answered. “It did, de first couple of times.  But after dat I'm sorry t' say… Y'get used to it.”

            She paused, something in her giving way to - disappointment? - then rested her palm on his stomach. “Ah don't believe you,” she murmured.  A laugh rumbled in his chest.

            “S'fair enough.  I don't want you t' have to figure it out for yourself, Rogue.  Not ever.”

            She looked at him then, seeing something deeper in his eyes than his words had intimated to her.  He had been right, and she'd known it from the start - Guess could not have been allowed to live, not if she wanted to stay alive - he'd known too much, seen her face, heard her voice, known what she was willing to sacrifice.  She would have had to kill him.  Remy had simply done it before she had had to.  Because he knew she would never have been able to do it, not without killing her soul first.  He'd done the same for her with Kincaid.  It was his form of protecting her, shielding her from something far worse than mere physical harm.  She wondered how much of his own soul he'd had to kill in order to survive - when she searched his face she thought she saw it, in the dark circles under his eyes, the tiredness of his mouth.  He alone knew what killing could cost her, because it had already cost him so much.

            _But my soul's already tainted, Remy… It's already been spoiled…_

            Nevertheless she found herself squeezing his hand, just once, when she said: “Thanks.”  And she meant it.  He however, touched her hand with his fingers, stroked the back of it with just a hint of insinuation.

            “You really wanna thank me, chere, there are other ways you can do it…” he drawled huskily.  He moved his hand, grasping her wrist in a strong, firm grip, communicating to her what he wanted; but she resisted his pull.

            _Not here… We only belong in one place…_

            “Remy…”

            “Hmmm?”

            She released her arm from his grasp, placed a hand on his chest, traced the latticework of scars on his skin with a curious finger…

            “Ah wanna go back t' the safe house,” she whispered.

-oOo-


	16. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue and Gambit head back to the safe house, where the dynamics of their relationship begin to take on a more intimate shade.

            She wasn't sure when exactly the safe house stopped being a run-down apartment and became 'their place'; but somewhere along the way it had happened, just as surely as the change in their relationship had happened - not in any one single moment, but over a long progression of time, events and intangible feelings.

            They rode back on his Harley in total silence; words no longer needed to be formulated between them, being superfluous and unnecessary.  When they finally arrived, the sun had disappeared, though the heat of the day still clung stubbornly to the air.  The place was deserted, quiet as a ghost.  She climbed off the bike first, placed a hand on his shoulder and said: “Just a moment.  Ah need to make a call.”

            He nodded, understanding, and she walked to the other end of the forecourt and slipped into a corner.  Flipping open her cell phone, she dialled Mystique's number.

            There was only one ring before Raven answered.

            “Rogue?!” Her foster-mother’s sharp, irascible voice rasped down the line. “Where the fuck are you?!  I've been worried sick trying to call you all evening, and you haven't even had the common decency to leave your fucking phone on!  What the hell is going on?!”

            “Somethin' came up,” Rogue returned calmly, already long used to Mystique's short, volatile rages.

            “What the fuck do you mean 'something came up'?”

            “Ah mean somethin' unexpected happened that Ah had to sort out.  But don't worry, it's all been dealt with.  Ah was just callin' to let you know Ah'm okay.”

            “All been dealt with?” Concern edged into Raven's voice. “Rogue, what happened?  Did you get the documents off Guess?  Was the tip-off right?  And where is that little shit anyway?  Did you make him suffer?”

            “He's dead,” Rogue replied as dispassionately as she could.  Raven was silent a minute, but when next she spoke, her tone was measured.

            “Dead?  You mean you--”

            “Ah mean he knew too much, Raven,” she said hastily.  She looked up.  Remy was standing waiting in the entrance of the building, casually smoking a cigarette.  She lowered her eyes, dropped her voice; added: “He knew about me, Mystique.  Remember that night at the Ritz?  Somehow he put two and two t'gether, figured out what Ah was up to.  But don't worry.  He's dead.  And the evidence has been destroyed.”

            “He had evidence of that night?” Raven's voice was breathless. “Rogue, are you quite sure -?”

            “Yes, Ah'm sure.  Ah've done the damage control, it's all fine.” She looked up again; Remy had his back to her and was stamping out his cigarette with a boot heel. “Listen, Raven… Ah'm gonna be otherwise occupied t'night.  Still got some business t' finish up.  But Ah'll be back in the mornin' t' fill you in with all the details, okay?”

            “More business?” Mystique returned suspiciously. “Rogue, are you perfectly sure this has all been sorted?”

            “Trust me.  It's just that… there's somethin' Ah've got t' do.  Don't worry about me, and don't worry about the mission.” She paused, adding quickly, “Ah'll see you tomorrow.”

            “Rogue -”

            But before she could protest anymore, Rogue ended the call and switched off her phone completely before walking back to Remy.

            “Everythin' okay?” he asked as she approached him.

            “Fine,” she stated firmly, sidling up to him and tugging on his coat lapels. “Looks like Ah'm free for t'night.  Shall we?”

            His only answer was his smile.

 

            She'd held onto his sleeve all the way up to the room, not quite able to take his hand in hers, but still somehow needing the physical link between them.  He hadn't denied her the connection, and it had been another dangerous form of attachment between them, however small - nevertheless it was as if they had both now accepted that the attachment existed, and they were helpless to do anything about it.

            Key in the lock, a flick of the wrist; the door was open and they were sliding inside, already kissing before it was closed behind them - she heard him working the locks and bolts one-handed while he pinned her up against the door, his mouth warm and hungry on hers… The door finally locked, she felt the back of his hands caressing her cheeks, her hair, falling to her shoulders and sliding the duster off her, his mouth nipping her lower lip, grazing her jaw, down her throat to her clavicle, unzipping the bodysuit as he went…

            It was with an effort that she pushed him back, fighting for breath against the passionate onslaught of his kisses.

            “Remy…”

            He surfaced, touching his nose to hers and catching her lips with his own, before saying humorously: “Lemme guess… You wanna shower…”

            She felt almost embarrassed.

            “Uh huh,” she sounded weakly.

            He chuckled, deep and husky, pushing himself away from the door, freeing her.

            “Okay,” he said good-naturedly.  At least he seemed to find her habit amusing.  She edged away from the door, her knees like jelly, the fire still in her stomach, realising that she didn't want to stop - she needed him too bad…

            She half turned back towards him, looked expectantly over her shoulder and drawled: “Maybe yah might wanna join meh…?”

-oOo-

            This time, as always, it had been different to the time that came before it.

            This time even Rogue had surprised herself.  She'd had no compunction about where or how she made love to him, just as long as it had been fast and hard and wild and graceless, and he hadn't disappointed her - but then he never did, not in anything.  By now, she was completely comfortable with him, and he with her - not only were they lovers now, but they were bold and confident ones, ones who'd lived and seen through danger and knew they could cheat it.  They were now so completely secure in their clandestine relationship that they couldn't even conceive of the possibility that they might not meet again.  They were indestructible and inviolable, and that in a way made their love affair even more exciting and illicit.

            This time it had not been awkward, nor soulful, nor desperate, nor poignant or touching.  It had been gleeful, joyful, abandoned - they'd explored and experimented with one another's bodies with a freedom neither had felt before.  They had been exhilarated, elated by this, their own secret and private war against the world.

            Of course, this deepening sense of collusion could not but deepen their sense of emotional partnership - but by now they had both accepted this with a kind of resigned helplessness, undesirable though it ultimately was.  Because both knew that it could not last, that one day they would reach a point where both mutual feeling and mutual secrecy would become untenable, and that they would have to make a choice - to leave behind their differing worlds for one another, or part ways forever.

            But while the knowledge of this eventuality was very much present inside both their minds, neither heeded nor made any allusion to it.  It was so dangerous neither of them wanted to touch it for fear of facing the fact that their entire relationship was built upon a teetering house of cards, one that must one day inevitably come tumbling down.

           

            “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,” Rogue murmured half to herself, while she bent over and re-taped his wounds.  Below her, Remy merely pulled a face.

            “Chere, for de last time, it's nothin'.  I'm fine.  B'sides, what's pleasure without a little pain?”

            She raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Ah'm beginning t' think there's just a little bit of the masochist in you, Remy LeBeau.”

            His expression was voluptuous.

            “You only just noticed?”

            She grinned wryly to herself. “Somethin' tells me this ain't the first time you've messed around while at death's door,” she commented.

            “I get a lot of broken ribs in my line o' work.  I also happen t' get a lot o' fun on de sidelines too.” He shrugged. “You learn to live with it.”

            “Sounds like a lotta hard work,” she noted sourly, pouting.  He smirked and reached out, caressing her pout with his forefinger.

            “It's a lot of hard work when _you're_ not around,” he bantered teasingly, making her poke him a little too roughly, and just as she'd finished up taping his ribs.  He winced.

            “Count yahself lucky Ah even agree t' come round this pokey li'l place and make out with you at all,” she grumbled.

            “I do,” he answered solemnly, though his eyes twinkled brazenly as he watched her vigorously pack away the first aid kit, a begrudging expression on her face. “Every minute of every day.”

            She threw the kit over the side of the mattress and stretched herself out beside him, frowning. “Ah am _so_ just your fetish,” she complained in a murmur.

            “Mebbe,” he agreed after a moment. “You were always de unattainable goddess on her pedestal, remember?  And it just so happened I was de one who managed to attain you.  It's a bit like a fantasy made flesh, isn't it?  I get to debauch de pure, innocent virgin and turn her into a passionate sex goddess.  There isn't a guy alive who wouldn't be jealous.”

            Her frown was in serious danger of being permanently etched onto her face.  _Is that all Ah ever am to men - a fuckin' sex object?_

            “Well Ah'm so glad Ah've had the pleasure of bolsterin' your male ego for you, you insufferable jerk,” she growled sarcastically, rolling over and poignantly turning her back on him.

            “If you're so bothered about it, I ain't keepin' you here under lock and key,” he noted acidly behind her. “You're free to leave at any time.”

            “Ah'd leave if you really wanted me to,” she threw back at him in an equally caustic tone. “If Ah knew you wouldn't turn up in another six month's time and beg me to come back up here and play your freakin' sex slave.”

            There was a short silence before he returned in a curious tone of voice: “And if I did do exactly dat… Would you still say yes?”

            She paused, knowing she would say yes because she was dangerously infatuated with him and that every night since they'd last been together she'd been longing for him in a way that wasn't just down to mere lust…

            “Yes,” she confessed in a belligerent tone.  He laughed.

            “You wanna make threats, chere, you better learn to seriously mean them,” he heckled her; she was sorely tempted to give him another injury at this point.

            “But if Ah did walk out on yah,” she pointed out cynically, “if Ah decided to disappear off the face of the earth, and you couldn't find me no more… You'd miss me then, wouldn't you.” She rolled back over and propped her head up in her hand, looking down into his face with a testy expression. “ _Wouldn't you_?”

            “Okay, okay!” He looked harassed. “I'd miss you.  Maybe just a little.” He sighed theatrically.

            She glowered, but couldn't help breaking into a laugh when she saw he was really joking.

            “Don't worry none, sugah, Ah'm sure you'll find your kicks elsewhere.” She settled down into the pillows, finding she wasn't really bothered about it that much if he did.  Just as long as he was alive and happy… He shifted slightly onto his side so he could look into her eyes.

            “Nah… I'd miss you for sure.” He smiled and stroked her chin tenderly with thumb and forefinger. “I'd be pining too much t' even so much as look at another woman.”

            “Pfft.  You'd only miss the sex.”

            “Heh.  Too right.  Who woulda thought dat de untouchable ice queen would turn out to be such a dirty little girl?” He paused, a slight frown touching his lips. “Still can't get over it…”

            The way he was looking at her, so intense, as if he could capture the truth from her with his eyes, instantly told her what was on his mind, and for once she didn't shy from it - she was ready for him, ready for the inevitable question…

            But it didn't come.

            “If you wanna say it then say it, Remy!” she broke out, frustrated.  

            _C'mon, ask me if you're the only one, ask me if Ah've been with other men, ask me if Ah'd leave them all behind for you and Ah'll gladly say 'yes'…_

But he said nothing, still giving her that half-penetrating, half-troubled look.

            _He_ still _can't spit it out…_

            Irritated, hurt and angry, she hit his chest hard, hard enough to hurt, hard enough for him to reel over onto his back and she pressed her hands against his breast, glared down at him and cried: “Just what is your problem?!  Ah know you sleep with other women, Ah even accept it; why shouldn't Ah be able to see another man?!”

            He stared right back at her, calm, grave, serious.

            “ _Is_ there another man?”

            It was so quick, so unexpected that for a moment she was taken aback, unprepared; and suddenly something within her faltered and she couldn't confess it, somehow she knew it would hurt him too much.

            “No,” she finally breathed. “No, there isn’t.”

            A terrible half-lie, a terrible half-truth, because her heart would always belong to him while her body would always belong to many…

            His expression hadn't changed; it was still closed, still watchful, and she sank back onto the mattress, turning her back on him once again, her eyes smarting, unable to bear the look on his face.  At last he spoke, breaking the dense blanket of silence.

            “Of course, if there ever _was_ anyone else… If you ever _wanted_ t' be with another man…”

            “Yeah, Ah know,” she snapped, cutting him off; she didn't even want to hear him say it. _…If you ever wanted to be with another man go ahead, I wouldn't care…_

            She almost wanted to tell him that he didn't have to worry, that she'd never want another man, but somehow she knew it was going too far.  She lay there, staring at the wall, until she felt his lips press against her shoulder blade, his breath on her skin as he asked, “You mad at me?”

            “Nope,” she lied.

            Silence.

            “I'm sorry,” he spoke up.

            “For what?”

            “For makin' you mad.  And for havin' fun when I'm not here with you.”

            He'd picked up enough negative vibes to know that she wasn't in the mood for afterplay.  She felt him roll away from her.

            “Don't bother apologisin',” she fumed at him.

            “Okay, I don't apologise for it.  Geez.”

            She heard him reach for the packet of cigarettes in his discarded trench coat pocket; the next moment there was the sharp _click_ of the antique gold lighter he'd no doubt stolen somewhere down the line, and she smelt the aroma of burning tobacco.

            “Seriously though,” he spoke again after a short silence, “ain't you jealous?”

            She pretended to think about it.

            “No,” she replied at last. “Ah want you t' be happy.  The happiest that you can be.”

            _As long as there's always someone to keep you warm…_

            He chuckled a little, but the laugh was light and appreciative rather than mocking.

            “ _Are_ you happy?” she asked him curiously.

            “As happy as I can be,” he replied honestly. “You?”

            She said nothing.  She couldn't very well tell him the truth; but on the other hand she couldn't bring herself to lie either.

            “Things are okay,” she said at last, letting it lie at that.  She swivelled round again, changing the subject before he could question her further. “What's the time?”

            He reached over the edge of the mattress again for his watch, stared at it.

            “Twelve twenty five.” He placed the watch aside again. “You gotta get back early tomorrow?”

            “Ah should get back before midday,” she murmured, thinking about what she should say to Mystique when she reported back tomorrow – not to mention what Mystique would have to say about it. “What about you?”

            “Gotta job tomorrow,” he grunted, taking a drag and blowing smoke. “Shouldn't've agreed t' go and do your dirty work earlier today - I'm totally busted up.”

            “Should've rested up instead of screwing me senseless,” she told him archly.

            He laughed quietly, sat up and grabbed a grimy old ashtray from the nearby nightstand, tapping his cigarette against it.

            “Wouldn't be me if I didn't test all de boundaries of sense and reason every once in a while, chere.”

            She hummed her agreement, propped her head up against his thigh, absently stroking his calf with the back of her hand.

            “Thanks though.  For gettin' me outta that bind.  It means Ah get t' keep my head when Ah report back tomorrow.”

            “You already thanked me,” he said, tapping more ash into the ashtray.

            “Not enough.”

            “We could go another round, if you really want.”

            She ignored his cajoling tone.

            “Ah mean it.  Trask would've killed me for sure.” She sighed and lifted a lock of her white hair, stared at it miserably. “Guess Ah'll have t' dye my hair now, huh?  Trask'll be lookin' for a gal with a white streak in her hair - he'll be stoppin' every gal on the street who fits the description just t' get his hands on me.”

            He looked down at her.

            “Why de long face?”

            “Ah happen to be attached to mah skunk stripe, thank yah very much,” she scowled back up at him.

            “Hmm.  I'm kinda fond of it too.  But you're right, chere.  It'll have to go.”

            She sighed.

            “Ah hate this,” she muttered.

            “Would you rather be wit' de rest of de X-Men right now?  Or a Hound?  Or dead?” he asked.

            “Ah'd rather be bustin' the X-Men out of those internment camps right now,” she replied angrily. “Instead of blowin' up random factories and hackin' into the odd database now and then.”

            “Small steps, chere,” he reminded her matter-of-factly. “We'll get there, Rogue.”

            He blew smoke, stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette, placed the ashtray back on the nightstand and slid back down under the comforter, putting his arms round her.  She snuggled into him, shivering slightly at the relative coolness of his body against hers.

            “Will we _ever_ get there?” she whispered.

            “I promise,” he said. “We'll get de X-Men back and be one big happy family again.”

            She laughed mirthlessly.

            “Happy family, huh?  Half of them are dead already.” She lowered her voice, continued: “Everyone who ever meant anythin' t' me is gone.  The Professor's dead.  So's Kurt.” She paused. “Ah never got t' say goodbye t' him.”

            He stirred, nuzzling his face into her hair. “You ever hear from Mystique?” he asked.

            “No,” she answered simply, after a short silence.  Strangely, it wasn't hard to lie to him.

            “Guess she could be anywhere… Doin' anythin'… Bein' anyone, for dat matter…”

            “Yeah.”

            “And Destiny?  You ever hear from her?”

            “Destiny?” She thought about Irene, always calm, always quiet, always going along with Raven's whims without question… Yet orchestrating all Raven's operations, believing that all this pain and suffering was for some end purpose after all… “She must be dead too,” Rogue said at last. “If she were alive, she'd be findin' a way to sort out the good future from the bad one… Maybe this whole fucked up regime would be over already.”

            “I dunno,” Remy replied neutrally. “Remember what de Prof always used to say?  Dat tryin' to fine-tune events so dat they fit de future you want is near next to impossible?  Could even drive a person insane.”

            _God, please don't let that be the truth…_

            “You mean Mystique and Destiny may have always been following just a pipe-dream?”

            “Maybe.  But if they're alive, and searchin' for an answer… I hope they find it.”

            Against his chest, she half-smiled.

            “Me too.”

            They were quiet after that, him stroking her hair and lulling her towards sleep.  Despite the fact that she wanted to savour every moment of this night right down to the very last second, she felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and finally drop as she unwillingly gave into unconsciousness.

 -oOo-

            Just like almost every one of their previous encounters, when she woke up the next morning it was to find him already dressed and ready to go.

            She blinked, her eyes smarting in the pale, frosty sunshine, before she saw him walk into her periphery of vision, consumed in his own thoughts as he slammed his bag down onto the crotchety dresser and stuffed some random items into it. 

            “On your way out already, huh?” she croaked into the silence.  He started, paused, looking back briefly over his shoulder towards her before continuing his packing.

            “Uh huh.”

            “'Cos last night was last night, an' that was just sex, and today is back to business?” she persisted, watching his movements which were now jerky, stilted.  Still, there was a little strength, a little resolve left in his voice when he replied: “Yup.”

            His back was still on her, feigning indifference - and this time she knew he was feigning.  She'd always hated the false detachedness of their partings, necessary though it had been, and for the first time she knew he'd always felt the same way, that he had never really wanted to leave either.

            _You’re so stupid Remy… Even if we can't be somethin' more than 'just sex', it doesn't mean we have to make this hard on ourselves…_

            She threw back the covers, ordered him in a husky voice: “C'mere.”

            He paused again, looking over his shoulder at her, eyes widening when he saw what she was up to.  But then a small smile creased his lips and he left the dresser and came to her, slipping in under the comforter as she let it fall over them again like a blanket of snow.  Gently she took his hands in her own and placed them on her hips, letting him feel her, letting him hold her as she pressed her naked body against him; his eyes flashed, sudden desire rekindled, but she held his face between her palms, whispered: “Then every business day until Ah see you again, Ah ain't gonna be thinkin' of anythin' but you.”

            He gave no answer, no confirmation of his own feelings, but she needed none.  Instead she opened his mouth with her own and kissed him, and it was enough to know how he felt when he kissed her back.

            And when at last they finally pulled back, she felt satisfied.

            “All right, sugah.  You can go now.”

            She lay there smiling to herself as she watched him slide out of bed and go back to the dresser.  She was okay now.  She could go back to life on the outside without remorse.  They shared a bond they'd never share with anyone else and she didn't care if it wasn't out of love.  It was enough for her, enough to keep her living through the dark hours.  She wouldn't be afraid to face the days without him anymore.  She could carry on in some semblance of peace.

            By the time he'd finished she'd almost fallen asleep again, but suddenly he shook her gently into wakefulness, a cup of coffee in his hand.

            “You stayin'?” he murmured.

            “Just another few minutes or so,” she drawled. “Ah'm tired.”

            “Then I'll leave dis here,” he replied, placing the mug down beside the mattress. “But you might wanna drink it 'fore it gets cold, chere.”

            “You got a coffee machine in here?” she raised a lazy eyebrow.

            “Installed it after de last time we were here,” he grinned.

            “Mah stars and garters, this is turnin' into a regular homestead,” she bantered.

            “Don't joke about it,” he half frowned, half laughed.

            “Ah s'ppose the next time Ah'm here you'll have a dishwasher too.”

            “Hmm.  I'd figured on gettin' a TV.”

            “Don't need one, sugah.  Watchin' you get all hot an' heavy is entertainment enough for me.”

            He laughed this time, a genuine laugh, and when he'd finished he almost looked sad that he had to leave.

            “Drink up now, chere,” he said softly, “I gotta go.”

            “Ah know.”

            He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

            “You take care now.”

            “You too, sugah.”

            He stood up, shouldered his bag, headed for the door.  She thought he'd pause before he went out, look back at her and say something, anything.  But he pulled open the door, walked straight out and shut it behind him with a firmness that filled the empty chasm of silence with an ominous echo that made her heart ache.

            She lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, listening to his footsteps fade into the distance.

            Then, they were gone.

 -oOo-


	17. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue learns that Irene knows a lot more about her private life than she's ever suspected.

            It was a thirty-minute bus ride to her bike, which she'd hidden a couple of blocks away from where she'd first made contact with Guess the day before.  It was another half-hour before she arrived back at base, only to find an irate Raven waiting at the door for her, literally foaming at the mouth.

            “So this is how you reward my patience, is it?!” Mystique screamed at her as soon as she'd walked in through the door. “By turning up _now_ of all times?!”

            Rogue glanced at her watch, which read eleven thirty.  Okay, so she'd spent an inordinately long amount of time hanging around the safe house, but she _had_ said she'd return in the morning and technically it _was_ still the morning…

            “Ah said Ah'd be back in the mornin',” she replied calmly. “And it's still the mornin', Mystique.  So cut me some slack, okay?  Ah ain't in the mood.”

            She walked into the kitchen, Raven hot on her heels, fuming with rage.

            “Mood?  Don't talk to me about what fucking mood you're in, Rogue, because I've been worried sick about you the past eighteen hours, and frankly your call last night was fucking inadequate!  Why did you turn your cell off again?!  Anything could've happened to you and I wouldn't have been able to call!”

            “If anythin' had happened t' me, you wouldn't have been able to get through anyway,” Rogue noted dryly, opening the fridge and grabbing some juice.

            “At least if you hadn't answered I would've known you were in trouble,” Mystique reasoned in irritation.  Rogue ignored the statement, poured out the juice and went for some cereal.  Raven seemed to realise that her ranting wouldn't get anywhere, so she sighed, pulled up a chair and sat at the dinner table, saying in a taut tone of voice: “All right.  We'll come back to your blatant display of idiocy later.  Now why don't you tell me exactly what happened with that little shit Guess yesterday?”

            Rogue sat down opposite Raven and ploughed straight into her story, somehow managing to shovel down her breakfast in the meantime.  Raven made several interruptions here and there, questioning Rogue as to exactly what happened - of course, Rogue found it challenging to remain coherent, seeing as she was trying to keep any mention of Remy out of the anecdote.  But she'd had the entire morning to come up with a plausible tale, and by the time she'd finished it, Mystique seemed reasonably convinced.

            “This presents us with all sorts of problems, of course,” Raven noted sourly. “Trask knows there was a concerted effort to break into the Trask Technologies database that night, and that a considerable amount of planning went into it.  He'll be on the look-out for a girl with a white-streak in her hair as well,” she added, staring at Rogue's skunk stripe with a certain amount of distaste.

            “Don't worry,” Rogue muttered. “Ah'm on it.”

            “And I suppose we're going to have to take some precautionary measures and leave this place,” Mystique added peevishly, ignoring Rogue's comment. “Fortunately Forge and I have considered such an eventuality and we've already got a place lined up.  I want us out of here by tomorrow morning, Rogue.  If there's anything you need, I suggest you have it packed by tonight, am I clear?”

            Rogue said nothing, merely giving a half-hearted nod by way of reply.  In truth there was nothing she owned that was particularly invaluable to her, apart from the butterfly pendant.  All that was important was her equipment, and the few items of clothing she possessed - all other items she owned had been jettisoned when her previous life had ended, and so she was not unduly concerned about Mystique's desire to vacate.

            “Still, you've managed to recover some useful information,” Mystique was continuing thoughtfully. “We now know that Trask has already gone to great lengths to discover what really happened with Rifkind that night, and that he'll obviously be stepping up his efforts to uncover the whole truth.  He also suspects a shapeshifter was involved.” Her smile was twisted. “He's not stupid, I'll give him that.”

            “He's also potentially linked me to the X-Men,” Rogue pointed out in a murmur, dipping her spoon into her cereal and suddenly deciding she couldn't stomach anymore.

            “Hmm.” Raven propped her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers together. “Things are getting interesting.  But I wouldn't have it any other way.  We'll just have to play things cautiously from now on, Rogue.  Trask knows we're out there - at least we know he's actively looking for us now.  It _does_ give us something of a head start.  This couldn't have come at a better time, really.  Irene's pinpointed a series of very interesting visions in her diaries that may yet turn the tide against Trask and the Sentinels… We just have to play this right…”

            Rogue grunted, thinking on what Remy had said about Irene's predictions the night before.  What if it was true and Irene's visions of the future were nothing more than ghosts that could never be chased down? What if they were all fighting a hopeless fight?

            “Which leaves the question of what you were doing last night,” Mystique broke in archly, her eyes narrowed. “Just what were you doing that was so important?”

            “Ah told you last night,” Rogue replied irritably, getting up to shove her bowl and glass into the already over-filled sink. “Ah was takin' care of business.”

            “Business that kept you up all night long?” Raven's tone was disbelieving.

            “Look, if you’re so bothered about it, why don't you ask Irene what Ah was doin'?” Rogue growled uncharitably.

            “You know Irene's power doesn't work like that.”

            “Yeah, but she coulda seen what Ah was doin' ten years ago… hell, she might even have written about it in her Diaries!” Rogue retorted sarcastically. “Why don't you go have a look?”

            “Rouge, I will not hear you speaking in such a disrespectful tone about your foster-mother,” Raven's voice wavered with anger. “She is our one hope in this venture - without her everything falls apart at the seams!”

            For a moment, Rogue would have answered back sharply - but then thought better of it.

            “Sorry,” she apologised instead, though grudgingly.  There was an awkward quiet, during which she decided to wash up the dishes - all the while she could feel Raven's eyes, cold and accusing on her back.

            “Are you seeing someone, Rogue?” she suddenly asked out of the blue.  Rogue stared at the dishes, her heart beating fast as she scrubbed them even harder.

            “No,” she replied firmly.

            “No?  Why else would you be spending whole nights away from headquarters, supposedly sorting out mysterious 'business'?”

            “If Ah was seein' someone, dontcha think Ah'd be seein' him on a regular basis, rather than once every year or so?” she sniped roughly.

            “I don't know,” Raven's tone was shrewd. “Times like these don't always allow for stable relationships…”

            “Ah'm not seein' anyone,” Rogue returned in a dead tone. “And what the fuck would it matter if Ah was anyhow?”

            “It may not matter at all.  Or it may matter a very great deal.  It would depend on who he was, what he did, what he was committed to… How much you cared for him…”

            Rogue dropped the dishes back into the sink and spun round, her expression glacial.

            “So that's it, isn’t it!  Yah want me to be committed to _one_ thing - the mission!  The fuckin' cause - _your_ fuckin' cause!  Ain't that right?!”

            “ _Are_ you committed to it Rogue?” Raven asked, her eyes watchful as an insect's.

            “Ah… _yes_.  You _know_ Ah am!  But that doesn't mean Ah don't have feelin's outside of mah job!  Ah ain't your puppet, Mystique, or Irene's!  Ah'm still a fuckin' human bein', goddammit!  Do you even _notice_?!”

            Raven's countenance was stoical.

            “I have noticed,” she retorted calmly. “And I am very much aware of the sacrifices you've had to make for the cause.  We have _all_ made sacrifices, Rogue.  And when our fight is over, we shall bear those sacrifices with pride.”

            “And bein' with someone, is that somethin' we should be ashamed of?!” Rogue yelled back, her temper flaring white-hot. “Aren't emotions somethin' t' bear with pride as well, now that people are too tired and scared and screwed up t' feel them anymore?!”

            Raven was unruffled.

            “Are you seeing someone?” she echoed softly.

            “Even if Ah was, Ah wouldn't tell you!” Rogue screeched, storming out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind her.

           

            She lay face-down on her bed, unable to cry - she was so used to holding back tears that it was as though she couldn't shed them anymore.  Underneath her shirt, the butterfly pendant was pressing into her breast; she could feel its imprint on her heart, marking her flesh, making her chest throb with pain; but she wanted to feel the pain, she wanted something cruel and vicious to hold onto, to make her feel alive, to keep her feeling angry and hurt and abandoned.  She was furious - furious at Mystique, at the Brotherhood, at Remy, at herself.  No one could help her, no one could understand her, no one could save her, not even from herself.  She was alone, and it hurt.  She'd been alone all her life, even when she'd been in the X-Men, and she was sick and tired of it, she wanted out.

            She didn't even stir when she heard the door to her room open and close again; she didn't want to see Raven, didn't want to hear her stupid platitudes ever again…

            “Are you going to see him again?”

            It was Irene's voice not Raven's - soft, placid as ever, asking the question as if she already knew the answer.  Rogue remained where she was and took care not to show her surprise.

            “Ah don't know what you're talk--”

            “It's a dangerous game you're playing, Rogue,” Irene interrupted shortly. “And you both know it, don't you.”

            It was a statement, not a question.  Something hard had formed in the pit of Rogue's stomach, a leaden weight.  Slowly she turned her head to see Irene standing, small and innocuous, in the doorway.

            “You've seen us,” she whispered.  Irene half-smiled and seemed to look off over Rogue's shoulder into an imaginary distance.

            “It's strange,” she observed, her voice airy and conversational, “within this web there are many, many strands of the future open to us, a plethora of possibilities… There are so many conceivable outcomes for any one single event that the likelihood of even one small, random thing being the same in more than one strand of time is nothing short of impossible.  And yet,” she added lightly, “in a great many of these threads, the two of you are a constant.” She paused, her unseeing eyes falling back onto Rogue's face. “Of course, I will not deny that there are several futures where the two of you as a couple are absent, or negligible… But on the whole, these futures are few and far between.  It's almost as if Fate had chosen the two of you to serve a certain purpose… And I find that very interesting, Rogue.  Do you know how very few people are bonded in this way?”

            There was something in Irene's words that sent shivers of foreboding up Rogue's spine.  Slowly, she sat up, shook her head.  Irene merely smiled serenely, continued.

            “There are Scott Summers and Jean Grey - in every future I looked upon, they were bonded.  Then there are Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr.  And Raven and myself, of course.  And then there are you and him.  Sometimes.”

            “Have you seen us?” Rogue questioned in a whisper, unable to hide the eagerness from her voice. “Are we there?”

            “Your future is uncertain,” Irene frowned slightly. “I've tried to read it, but I can glean only very little.  Which leads me to believe that your paths may splinter off into many different and unpredictable directions… That is why I say it is a dangerous game you play, my child.  Are you even certain this man can be trusted?”

            Rogue hesitated.  She couldn't honestly answer yes.  Because she barely knew him, because in everything except her heart he was a stranger.  And yet she did trust him.  She trusted him more than any of the Brotherhood, more than Raven, more than Irene herself.  And for the first time she understood why.

            “Ah love him,” she murmured.  It was the first time she'd admitted it to anyone, even herself; the revelation unfurled something obscure and primitive inside her, a warmth, a secret, the most wonderful and beautiful secret she'd ever known…

            “Ah.” Irene's voice was sombre, regretful. “Then I am afraid that the danger you may find yourself in may be even more acute…”

            “That's what Raven thinks,” Rogue stated in a low voice. “That if Ah love anyone, Ah won't be able to think straight anymore… That Ah'll jeopardise the mission…”

            “But you would, wouldn't you,” Irene answered reasonably. “Next to him, the mission doesn't matter anymore, does it.  You'd drop our cause in a moment, if it was to be with him.” She paused and smiled, not even waiting for Rogue's answer. “It is this that Raven fears, more than anything.  Not that you will abandon our ethos, but that you will abandon _her_.  She loves you, Rogue.”

            “Well she sure has a funny way of showin' it,” Rogue muttered bitterly.

            “Raven's displays of affection are less than sophisticated,” Irene agreed. “As a recipient of it myself, I too have discovered this the hard way.” Her smile was faint, nostalgic. “But if you should ever wish to leave the Brotherhood, Rogue, we would not stop you.  Not even Raven would, though she may be most vocal in her objection.  We have seen what you have suffered, and all most willingly.  Even Raven would not begrudge you happiness.”

            Rogue stared down at her hands, followed the pattern of the lines on her palm with her eyes.  After a while she spoke, her voice weary.

            “Even if Ah turned away from the Brotherhood, there wouldn't be anywhere for me t' go.” She looked away, swallowing hard. “Remy and Ah don't have a relationship.  It's just a _fling_.  There's nowhere he could take me, nothin' he could give me, no one he could make me.  Ah don't even know what he does when we're apart.  Ah don't know where he lives, or who he works for, or what he dreams for once all this is over.  Ah don't even know whether he loves me back.  Ah don't suppose Ah'll ever know.”

            It felt good, in a way - talking to someone about it in such clear, clinical terms; even if it was only to Irene, who never seemed to speak or think in anything but riddles.  It was as if the torrid and passionate affair had some basis in reason and logic, as if something tangible and workable could be made out of the turmoil.

            “Does Mystique… does she know?” Rogue asked suddenly.  Irene closed her eyes briefly, took a deep sigh.

            “Raven suspects many things, but knows very little.” She opened her eyes and Rogue saw, to her surprise, that there was real pain in them. “I try to keep it that way - as far as I can anyhow.  There was a time I confided everything I knew to her - not just certainties, you understand, but a myriad of possibilities; a dozen different permutations of the same future event.  At first it gave us both a sense of purpose, to work towards that which we found most beneficial, beneficial to us, and to the mutant race as a whole.  But…” and her mouth trembled, ever so slightly, “that path leads to despair and often madness, Rogue.  Do not think I do not see it.  In many ways, it is I who is responsible for Raven's…instability.” She paused, her sightless eyes falling once more on the girl who sat before her. “Over time, the anguish of such a responsibility has forced me to withhold more from her than I may have done in the past.  It is my penance, Rogue.  To keep secrets from the one I love most, in order to preserve that which makes her human.” She paused and smiled a pale smile. “So now you see you are not the only one who sacrifices much for love.”

            Something in the statement left a sour taste in Rogue's mouth.  Whether it was guilt, or empathy, or bitterness she could not tell.  She swallowed the thickness in her throat and stared down at her hands once more.

            “Ah won't stop seein' him,” she decided at last. “Not even if you or Raven ordered me to, Ah wouldn't.”

            “I don't expect you would,” Irene agreed. “But understand this, Rogue - the two of you walk an uncertain path, and consequently a dangerous one.  Guard yourself, my child, both from him, and those around you - even the Brotherhood.”

            “All paths are potentially dangerous, Irenie,” Rogue murmured pointedly. “At least to those who can't see them.  You just have to be willin' to take a risk.  And Remy LeBeau is a risk Ah'm willin' to take.”

            Irene smiled faintly and turned to the door.

            “You are wiser than you know, Rogue,” she observed in a low voice. “And that is a gift you will be in sore need of.  Cherish it, Rogue.  At least for the benefit of a jaded old woman such as myself.”

            She placed her hand on the door handle, ready to go; but Rogue stopped her, before she could leave.

            “Irene… You won't tell Mystique, will you?”

            She did not look back.

            “Child, visions of the future are one thing; a dear daughter's secrets are quite another.  Raven shall never hear a word of this from _me_ , of that you may be assured.” She pressed down on the door handle with a wizened hand, and with a last 'goodbye, Rogue', she left.

            Rogue slumped back onto the bed and stared at the door, her expression thoughtful.  Irene may have begged to differ, but for the first time in her life, her path was very clear to her.  It was more powerful than Xavier's dreams, than vengeance for the dead, than a crusade for justice.

            She loved someone, she had someone to live for; it didn’t matter if she never saw him again, as long as he was out there her life had purpose, and she would never be afraid of walking this path again.

-oOo-


	18. Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambit breaks a personal rule by digging into Rogue's activities; and he gets a fateful call from his boss.

            Summer was languishing in the mutant ghettos like a disease; the heat seemed to get inside you, making everything sluggish and dense.  Remy LeBeau stood at his apartment window in his underwear, alternating between caffeine and nicotine, looking down onto the streets below.  Down in the courtyard two ragged little children were playing a primitive game of tag; their mangy dog was lying in a patch of shade as if he had collapsed there, panting in the humid heat of mid-afternoon, his tongue lolling out.  Despite the squalor, despite the poverty of this particular neighbourhood, children still found the time to play, to laugh.  That was why Remy spent as much time as he could in this apartment, when it was safe to do so; every day he'd get this rare treat, the infectious laughter of children wafting up through his windows from the courtyard down below.

            Behind him, in the dark and disordered recesses of his room, a dilapidated old black and white TV was playing a classic John Wayne movie; on the rumpled bedcovers, an ancient cassette player was speaking in a tinny, indistinct voice, announcing heatedly, “… _I swear to the American people, as God is my witness, I did not do what I have been charged with… I was in no orchestrated effort to bring down Trask Technologies… It is patently ridiculous that I met that night with a secret agent who offered me millions of dollars to hack into the database… Where on earth would mutants get millions of dollars from?…_ ”

            Remy moved away from the window, went to the bed and rewound the cassette.

            _We have our ways,_ he thought grimly to himself. _We have our ways…_

            He stopped the tape, pressed the play button, taking a swig of coffee from his cup.  The tinny voice came back, this time saying in a harassed tone, “ _Yes, I 'saw' a girl with a white-streak in her hair that night… But then I 'see' a lot of girls… I have provided both Mr. Trask and the court with a detailed description of that particular individual, and they have both been satisfied with my testimony… But let me assure you that there was nothing unusual about this girl at all… She said and did nothing that would lead me to suspect her… She could not have stolen the access cards I possessed as they still remained on my person until the day of my resignation from Trask Technologies… Of course, I thoroughly support FBI and Hound investigations into this girl, if of course she had anything to do with it…_ ” The man was interrupted mid-sentence and another voice hastily added: “ _And of course national security spokespeople assure all adult women who fit the description that there is no cause for immediate concern… While they may be stopped in the streets and searched, and while their identification papers will be checked, if they have nothing to hide they have nothing to fear…_ ” Another voice cut in, different from the first two. “ _Yes, and it is very possible that the search will be narrowed down to mutants, am I right…?_ ” “ _Oh yes…_ ” the second voice replied,“ _There has been something of a furore about non-mutant girls being searched over the past few days, but the President himself has pointed out that we can't be too careful in today's climate… We have no idea what these feral mutants may persuade innocent humans to do in order to further their cause…_ ”

            Remy frowned and hit the fast-forward button, then pressed 'play' again.

            “ _…has also been speculation and rumour about the identity of this mystery girl… FBI records of the infamous mutant outlaws, the X-Men - who were eliminated or arrested in the first military raids on mutant strongholds five years ago - name one of their members, who appears to fit the description of the woman National Security and Hound agents are currently searching for… This mutant outlaw goes by the name of Rogue - given name unknown… status is currently missing presumed dead… What do you think of such observations, Mr. Rifkind?_ ”

            The first voice returned, this time openly scornful, “ _Well that's just ludicrous… The girl I saw was not a mutant, and she was most definitely not an ex-X-Man. And no, I am not in any way, shape or form in collusion with the X-Men. It’s a well-known secret that the surviving members are confined to internment camps across the -_ ”

            Remy had heard enough.  He hit the 'stop' button again and sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully.

            _So they've made de link wit' Rogue already…_

            At that moment his cell rang, breaking off his train of thought.  He set down his coffee and his cigarette, went to the dresser and grabbed the phone.

            “Yeah?”

            The voice that answered was low, cultured and sonorous, dangerously so.

            “I take it you located Mr. de la Rocha?”

            “Yup,” Remy replied in a dispassionate tone. “I'll get onto pickin' him up tonight.”

            “Good.  Empaths are such interesting creatures.  I'm sure you can appreciate the finer subtleties of such a power.”

            “Funny.  I didn't t'ink emotion and subtlety were in any way compatible.”

            “Well, of course an uncivilised brute such as yourself would think so.  Were you burning the midnight oil again last night, my faithful friend?”

            “Non, not last night.”

            “How delightfully unexpected.  Are you quite sure there are no empaths around influencing _you_ , Gambit?”

            “Peh.  Non.  I'm just workin' on a side project right now.  Besides, hormones and emotions are totally diff'rent t'ings.  I don't t'ink an empath could affect my more 'uncivilised' urges.”

            “Ah, but no one is quite sure on that point.  It's the question of the chicken and the egg rearing its ugly head once again, I'm afraid.” The voice sounded faintly bored. “Once I have Mr. de la Rocha, I'll be able to settle the argument once and for all.”

            Remy grunted and went for his cigarette again.

            “I'm not int'rested in all dat bullshit,” he muttered.

            “Ah, yes, I forgot.  All you're interested in is your big fat paycheque.  And freeing the other insignificants who don't matter.  Ah well.  That is your prerogative, I suppose.” There was a pause. “Well, I look forward to our next meeting then, Gambit.  And as to this 'side project' of yours… please make sure it doesn't get in the way of your… other priorities.”

            “I'm an expert at compartmentalising.  Don't worry.”

            “You are quite the least of my worries, my dear boy,” came the mocking retort. “But _do_ make sure you return to me alive, LeBeau.  Despite appearances, I find I do have a certain fondness for you after all.”

            “Hmm.  One day I'll work out just exactly _why_ you keep me around.  I'm sure it ain't got not'ing t' do wit' any fondness on your part.”

            “On the contrary, my dear boy, I find myself quite attached to you… in more ways than one.” He trailed off on a small, ominous chuckle, before adding: “I won't keep your precious 'side project' waiting.  Just make sure you report back to me when you have the empath.”

            “'Kay.”

            Remy ended the call and threw the phone onto his bed.  For a long moment he stood in the middle of the room, mulling on this most recent call.  Then he stirred into action, stubbed out his cigarette, drained his coffee, switched off the TV, and dressed.  When this was done, he went to the cassette player, popped it open, and withdrew the tape.  Then, bending down underneath the bed, he wrenched open a floorboard, underneath which was a jumble of assorted paraphernalia, and onto which he unceremoniously threw the cassette.  The tape now safely hidden, he secured the floorboard, stood up, and checked himself for equipment.  Knife, cards, cigarettes… Yup, all there.  No need for the pack.  He'd only be making a short journey today.

            Satisfied, Remy walked out.

 -oOo-

            He took care to ride as many back streets as he could - it hadn't been safe to take the main roads for years now, especially with regular Sentinel checks.  Hounds wouldn’t be a problem unless he caused a ruckus and they actively made an appearance, which wasn't overly likely to happen on this particular mission.  Remy preferred stealth over outright aggression anyhow - he rarely got caught in situations where Hounds were likely to show up.  The times he'd skirmished with them, he'd managed to get away with more than just broken ribs, and he had no intention of a repeat experience.  Hounds were every mutant's worst nightmare.

            Still, Hound presence had become more visible the past week or so.  There was now a feeling that, with the Trask Technologies mutant info database made public to mutant rebel factions, said factions would be able to make concerted efforts to free certain mutants in certain camps.  The camps themselves were being staked out on a twenty-four hour basis; there was also a government crackdown on rooting out the dissidents.

            Remy had no doubt that these events had been exacerbated by the Guess incident, and his subsequent infiltration of the Ritz.  Over a week had passed since then, and the wounds he'd received from that particular affair still pained him - though the wounds were less physical than they were emotional, when he thought of who had patched up his injuries so tenderly.  Somehow their last meeting had tipped the scales into something more intimate, _too_ intimate; too intimate for him to accept.  He'd spent almost every free minute of his time delving into the ongoing saga of the mysterious girl with the white streak in her hair - it had been a way of getting close to her, but not close enough to rob him of his wits and senses.  Nevertheless he'd spent every night since their last meeting alone - it was a dangerous precedent for him and he knew what it meant.  It was the reason why he couldn't sleep, why he woke up shaking when he did.  But try as he might he still couldn't bring himself to accept it.

 

            He'd lied to her about his intentions that day.  He hadn't been tailing Guess at all.  That wasn't to say that he hadn't been tailing Guess on other occasions, because he had been, albeit for slightly different purposes.  Guess had contacts, he knew where to find certain people, people that Remy had often needed to find before others did.  But on that day, Guess had been far from his agenda.  _She_ had been on his agenda, and he'd been following her with the express intention of spending some time with her.  It had just been a coincidence that Guess had been the one on her hit list, and when Remy had seen Trask enter that warehouse he'd instinctively known she'd bitten off more than she could chew.  And so he'd followed her inside.

            It was an unfortunate instinct of his to play the knight-in-shining-armour routine - that day had been no exception.  Despite his better judgement he'd allowed himself to cross a boundary he'd promised himself he'd never cross - he'd got himself involved in her affairs, too involved to let it go easily.  And now it was a facet of her life that he'd become fixated on, because it was the only thing he really knew about her, outside of their safe house, outside of their lovemaking.

           

            He ground the Harley to a halt outside another old warehouse.  It was the same kind of neighbourhood you saw all over - a quadrant of tall, concrete coffins which imparted nothing to the outsider except an impression of cold, stark indifference.  He stepped off the bike and walked towards the warehouse.  It had long been abandoned - the only things that called this place home were woodworm, rodents, and the odd drug addict.  There was no need for stealth in gaining entry to this place.  It was quite open to the public, and as far as he could tell, had been for years.  He sidled into the rank, fetid open space that was main body of the building - there wasn't a soul inside.  That made his job all the easier.

            Remy walked across to the other end of the room, feigning casualness - only his eyes were watchful, darting here and there with great alacrity, taking in everything.  At last he came to a back door, which revealed a small set of stairs that led downwards.  Taking care to close the door behind him, he proceeded down the steps.  At the bottom were three doors.  Two were hanging off their hinges; the rooms inside were gutted and strewn with debris.  The last door had been grafittied over, but remained intact.  Remy walked up to it and tried the door handle.  The door was locked, and any amount of pushing and shouldering wouldn't budge it.  But he had come prepared.  Fumbling at his belt, he produced a set of skeleton keys and got to work on the lock.  It was only a matter of minutes before he heard it give way with a soft _click_ , and he was finally able to push open the door.

            What greeted him was an odd room - it was stacked high with various machines that were whirring softly on their desktops, shelves or tables; directional microphones, dictaphones, TV monitors, laptops and computers, VHS and DVD recorders, surveillance equipment… It was a veritable technophile's wet dream.

            Remy stepped inside the room, letting the door swing softly shut behind him  It took a moment to acclimatise himself to the room, so neat, so ordered after the disarray that the rest of the building had been left in.  There weren't only electronics in this room, but hundreds of notebooks, some stacked in piles on the floor, others standing to attention in their bookcases, others packed into cardboard boxes, all with their covers marked neatly in Guess' diligent and deliberate handwriting.

            Of course, Remy had found out about this place entirely by accident; he'd simply been tailing Guess one day on the off chance, hoping to cut a deal with him over certain information, when Guess had ended up heading not to his apartment, but to this warehouse.  It was only when Guess had left that Remy had taken the opportunity to break in and discover just what the shifty mutant had been hiding.  What he'd found was a treasure-trove of illicit information.  And luckily, Guess had been so low on the government's priority list that both they and Trask Technologies didn't know about it yet.

            Remy looked over most of the volumes in the bookcase with only fleeting interest.  Each was inscribed with a date and a subject, whether a certain event or a person's name.  He could only suppose that a mutant ability to rip other people's memories from their minds meant that there was more information to sift through than most people had - Guess had had to write everything down on paper, or save it all onto disc, in order to collate what he had stolen from other people's brains.  Remy spent half an hour flipping through Guess' most recent memory records, both in the notepads and on the discs that had been stored away in a desk drawer.  In none of these did he find the name of 'Troy Rifkind', nor the date of the night he had met Rogue at the Ritz.  He could only guess that these files had been in Guess' apartment, and had been confiscated by government agents or Trask Technologies after his death.  Thoroughly thwarted, Remy stood in the middle of the room and wondered what to do next.

            That was when he saw the videotape, lying   on a nearby desktop.  He picked it up and looked at the label on the spine, his stomach flip-flopping when he read _'Ritz Security Tape, 2 nd duplicate, X-X-2010'_.  So Guess had been savvy enough to make two duplicate copies of the tape.  He'd guessed as much…

            There was another tape in the recorder, and Remy ejected it, slipped in the Ritz tape, switched on the monitor, and pressed 'play'.  The screen flickered, came to life.

 

            Rogue was sitting at the hotel bar, legs crossed, sipping a tequila.  She was looking intently at something off-screen.  He barely recognised her face - the deep cherry red lips, the dark, charcoal grey eyes.  She was wearing a dark green dress of shimmering satin, strapless, low in the neckline and just a little above knee-length.  Her hair was loose, cascades of cinnamon hair tumbling over onto her shoulders, the milky streaks of white hair giving a café-au-lait effect.  Remy sucked in a breath when he saw her.  He'd never seen her looking like this, like a woman, a beautiful, sexy, self-possessed woman who knew the power she had over men.  He knew the look, the pose - it was the kind of look he'd seen on women many times before.

            It was the look of seduction, of the temptress.

            On the screen, something seemed to have half-startled her; he saw her swivel back round to face the bar.  A few moments later, an unknown man approached her and offered her a card, which she handed back with a few, short words.  The man inclined his head and withdrew; she turned back to the bar and sipped a little more of her drink; and then, suddenly, someone else approached her, someone whom Remy recognised immediately.

            Troy Rifkind.

            Remy leaned in, watching Rifkind buy her a drink, engage in small talk.  The body language was unmistakable - Rifkind was interested in her, he was chatting her up, she was in direct line as his next conquest.  And Rogue was talking back to him, smiling, laughing, joking.  She wasn't oblivious to Rifkind's intention at all, but encouraging it, milking it, acting coy and demure and playing along with everything he said…

            Rogue was flirting with him.

            The realisation hit Remy like a sucker punch to the stomach.  It wasn't the first time it had crossed his mind, but now, involuntarily, he found himself asking the question he'd been dreading for months… …

            _Did Rogue sleep with Rifkind that night?_

            Remy swallowed hard and hit the 'stop' button before he could watch anymore.  Reason was telling him that it was entirely natural for a beautiful woman to use her charms to worm information from a man, without having to take the plunge and sleep with him.  But on the other hand, Rogue had changed considerably over the past few years… She'd gone from being an awkward girl who had massive hang-ups about her body to a mature and experienced woman, and it stretched belief that he alone could be credited for being the cause of that particular change in her…  And of course, she was perfectly entitled to be with other men…

            _I don't believe it.  Not Rogue.  Sure, she'd charm a man any day of de week, but anyt'ing deeper den dat, anyt'ing physical… she just wouldn't do it.  Dis was de femme who'd freak if I even brushed up against her arm… No way she'd sell herself for de sake of de cause…_

            He didn't know whether he believed this reasoning or not, because he knew that despite her defensiveness over her body, she still agreed to meet with him on a regular if sporadic basis, with no pretence at commitment whatsoever…

            _But dat's diff'rent.  Her and me, we got past, we got history… We're more den jus' strangers…_

            Much, much more.  He still didn't like to admit it.

            _Merde.  Dis has gotten too deep, LeBeau.  You shouldn'ta stopped her dat first time round, you shoulda just left her alone and gone quietly about your own bus'ness… But you just had t' follow her, you just had to have a taste of her, didn't you?_

            And now she'd hooked him, dragged him down with her, down into the depths of something that was more than just lust and physical need and he couldn't handle it.

            There was no point in staying.  Wordlessly he switched off the monitor, ejected the tape and stuffed it into his duster pocket.  Then, silently as he had come, he left.

  -oOo-

            “ _Hey Remy.  It's Rita. I have some important information for you about that guy you asked after, you know, that so-called Multiple Man or whatever the heck he's called?  But darling, you have to promise me you'll me out to dinner first, okay?  And you know I won't complain if you wanna party a little afterwards._   _I still have that red dress I know you like… But listen, I've gotta go.  Murray's here.  Call me back when you're free.  Take care o' yourself, sexy.  Muah.  Bye._ ”

            Remy deleted the voice message and dropped the cell phone down onto the mattress beside him.  For several long minutes he stared blankly up at the ceiling, at the fan whirring round and round and round like a Ferris wheel moving ever onward, oblivious.

            Summer had drawn on lengthier and more stubborn than any other summer yet, dragging on and on without any sense of respite.  The past couple of days he hadn't been taking any calls except from his employer, hadn't changed out of his underwear, hadn't even stepped outside the apartment.  He'd been living on a steady diet of spam and coffee and cigarettes; he'd even imposed a limbo-like state of celibacy on himself the past three weeks, and it was killing him.  Life ached like an open wound that would not heal, and he could take pleasure from nothing anymore.

            Moving his head slightly, he looked at the tape that had been left untouched on the nearby dresser for the past ten days.  He'd seen no more of it than he'd watched in Guess' hideout the week before.  He hadn't wanted to, for fear of what he may find.  He knew he was being foolish and irrational, but he needed to talk to her, he needed to find out from her own lips what had happened, he needed to know if she'd slept with Rifkind, he needed to know if there had been others.  He needed _her_.

            _Merde_.

            He picked up his cell phone again, dialled a certain number.  There were several rings before the call was answered.

            “Yeah?” The cheap and cheerful male voice was faint, hushed.  Remy stared up at the fan, turning, turning…

            “Did you find her?” he asked.

            “Nope.  She's gone.”

            “Whaddya mean 'gone'?”

            “Gone as in gone.  Split.  Made tracks.  Her and her family… they've moved house, know what I'm sayin'?  She's not _there_ anymore.  But I could tell you where they used to hang out, y'know… Maybe you could go check it out… Pick up her trail again or somethin'…”

            “Non.” His tone was quick, decisive. “I don't wanna know about dat.  Dat was her business, ain't got nothin' t' do wit' me.  B'sides, they would've cleaned up b'fore they left, you ain't gon' find nothin' there.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            Remy looked at the tape on the dresser again, refusing to believe she was gone from his life...

            “Look…” he began again, “jus' keep an eye out for her, okay?  She may have moved house, but she's still gotta be workin' in de City… If you see her again…”

            “Remy, bro… Listen t' me.  I've _looked_ for her.  And I ain't findin' boo, man.  I swear it.” There was a pause, a sigh. “Look, man, maybe you might seriously wanna reconsider the girls you see anyway.  I mean, I ain't stupid, I watch the news too, you know.  And that girl, she's hot stuff, and I don't mean in a good way.  Half the city's looking for her.  A mutant girl with a white streak in her hair?  She's in deep and she knows it.  She's gone dark, man.  Invisible.  You ain't gonna find her, not if she don't wanna be found no more.  You wanna see her, you gotta wait for her to call on you, know what I'm sayin'?”

            “Yeah, I know what you're sayin'.  You t'ink I'm crazy and I should back off, but lemme tell you right now dat ain't gonna happen.”

            “Shit.  Yeah, I know.  You're fuckin' crazy, and I don't know what the hell is up with you and this broad, but yeah, I am seriously getting the impression that you are _not_ gonna back off.” Another pause, another sigh. “Look, Remy, I owe you several favours, so I'll keep a lookout for the girl.  If I ever see her again, I'll let you know.  'Kay?”

            “'Kay.  T'anks, mon ami.”

            “Don't mention it.  Talk later.”

            He switched the phone off, dropped it on the bed and stood up.  He should have thought about this before.  She'd probably gone ahead and dyed her white streak, the one distinguishing feature his network of spies had known her by.  If she had any sense at all she'd be lying low, keeping out of sight until the frenzy had died down.  And he had no way of contacting her.  No address, no number, not even anything to remember her by except a bunch of sordid nights they'd spent in one another's company.

            But there _was_ that videotape, sitting so innocuously to one side, taunting him.  It was the only keepsake he had of her, and it was the one thing that he didn't ever want to watch.

            He didn't have to think.  In one swoop he'd snatched it up in his hands, his eyes flashing red in the dusty sunlight.  A surge of power, a flash of pink light and the tape had been burnt to a cinder.  Remy opened his hands and let the charred remains flutter to the ground.

            The tape was gone, and so was the girl with the white streak in her hair.

 -oOo-

            Summer bled into winter bled into spring; by March he'd learnt to accept that Rogue didn't want to be found, and her name had dwindled to no more than a dull imprint etched upon his heart.  By the following summer, the days had dragged into some semblance of normality - he stopped actively trying to look for her and got on with his life.  Besides, business had increased; his services were in high demand, wherever it was that they happened to take him, from high security internment camps to ladies' boudoirs.  The powers that be were growing restless, skittish.  Hardly a day went by where he wasn't being called upon to find this mutant, or that mutant, for participation in this project or that project - Remy could only suppose that genius led to a certain capriciousness of mind that normal folk such as he did not possess.

            There were two consequences to this state of affairs: firstly, that there were an inordinately large amount of mutant breakouts that year, which drove the government to distraction; and secondly that Remy had little time to go chasing after Rogue.

            That didn't stop him from looking now and then, on the off chance, when he was on the job.  There were often times when he would think he saw her on the streets, or lurking in the shadows when he was on a particular mission.  Mostly, it would be the hair, or the stance; he'd find himself double-taking women on the sidewalk, only to find their faces were never the same, or the eyes would be there, but not the mouth, or the pout but not the laugh, and he'd walk on again disillusioned.  Still, he figured it was better this way; that after all the melodrama the past four years had afforded him, he could go back to being the devil-may-care rogue he'd been before, a lone wolf hindered by no unnecessary attachment or emotion.  Nevertheless, though he couldn't quite bear to admit it, he knew he would never be that same devil-may-care rogue again.

           

            The winter of 2012 came on with a chill not seen for seventeen years; when it wasn't snowing, the air was so cold people hurried from house to boutique to café to work as if they had been chased from one building to the next.  Remy, while a child of sunnier, humid climes, was as much at home in New York winters as New Orleans summers - nothing the weather could throw at him fazed him.  On the contrary, extreme weather brought to mind memories of Storm - there were many days when he would wonder where she was and what she was doing, whether she was still beautiful and proud and insufferable, or whether the years had broken down the wind goddess' spirit too.

            It was on one such morning that the phone call came.

            The snow had stopped, leaving New York City frozen in its own grime.  Sludge lined every street and sidewalk, painting the cityscape in filthy had refused to melt for the past week; there had even been a crisis with some of the older Sentinel models, which had simply frozen into place overnight.  Yup - there were a lot of reasons for Remy to feel buoyant these days.  Business was steady, his wallet was full, he had a warm pair of arms to hold him at night (courtesy of Tracy, Amy, Collette and very occasionally Rita), and _Louis' Place_ was cheap and open 24/7.

            Louis kept the pints coming with his regular stoic calmness.  He was standing on the other side of the bar staring at Remy drinking his third pint in forty-five minutes with the same deadpan look he always wore.  It wasn't the staring that was bothering Remy.  Louis stared all the time.  It was the fact that he'd been staring at him non-stop the past half hour that was beginning to tick him off.

            “ _What_?” he asked irritably, unable to help himself.  He knew it was never a good idea to piss Louis off.  He'd seen Louis pissed off, and it hadn't been good.

            “I thought you said you had a good night,” Louis stated, picking up a nearby cloth and wiping a glass absently, still staring.  His voice was as bland as if he'd stated that the sky was blue, or that coal was black.  Remy scowled and downed the remainder of his pint.

            “I had a good fuckin' night.  Get me another.”

            Louis said nothing, took the glass and filled it up.  Remy slapped some change on the bar, not really caring how much it cost.

            “Need a distraction?” the older man asked, still staring, though dispassionate.  Remy grunted.

            “Y'know me.  I got de attention span of a hummingbird on speed.”

            “Looks to me like you've got a woman on your mind.”

            “I told you, I had a good time last night.  Women are de least of my troubles, mon ami.  Now leave me alone.” He lifted the glass and when he smacked it down again it was already half empty.

            “What happened to that brunette you brought here once?” Louis questioned.  Still staring.   Remy stared back, tongue-tied for a moment.  Then he picked up the glass again and muttered: “Dunno.”

            “Did they catch her?”

            Remy could only suppose Louis watched the news too, and that he had a good long-term memory.

            “Dunno,” he repeated dismally. “What's wit' de twenty questions anyway?”

            Louis shrugged.  It was most animated Remy had seen him in years.

            “She had nice eyes,” he remarked off-handly. “Don't never wanna see a girl with eyes like that caught and thrown to the lions.”

            It was before Remy had the chance to muse over this odd statement that his cell phone started buzzing in his pocket.  He knew the soft, cultured voice would speak even before it did.

            “I have a job for you, LeBeau,” it said. “A very important one.  One that may very well play a part in the culmination of my life's work.”

            This was the not the first time Remy had heard such a declaration made by his employer, for genius often seemed to lend itself to grave errors of judgement.  Nevertheless, Remy hadn't heard such excitement or fervour in that dark and elegant voice before, and something about that fact alone left him with deep misgivings about anything the voice asked him to do.

            But there _was_ a reason he still worked for his employer, why he still obeyed instructions from him, and it was more than just mere gratitude, or even fear… It was a sense that, out of all the deluded, disillusioned and desperate people of this world, his was the only sure-fire way of ensuring mutant survival, of facilitating their escape from bondage.

            And it was because of this that Remy simply said: “What do you want me to do?”

            The voice was just as silky, just as smooth in its reply.

            “The usual.  Release a mutant, and bring her to me.  However, your task this time will be slightly different.  We will be working in concert with another party, one whose assistance is required in locating this mutant and subsequently freeing her.  I have taken the liberty of making a bargain of sorts with this second party… However…” and the voice's timbre changed slightly, sending cold shivers up Remy's spine, “it is often the nature of bargains that one may renege on them, a fact I am sure you are most acquainted with.”

            “Since when have you ever wanted to keep your side of the bargain anyway?” Remy dared to ask boldly; but the voice merely chuckled.

            “Ah, but I have been quite fair to you, LeBeau - and out of nothing more than the kindness of my heart.  You mean more to me than this rabble with which I have had to barter through nothing more than tiresome convenience.  It is simple, Remy.  They have information I don’t, information of a sensitive kind that they are holding very close to their chests.  And I have something they need too, which I am not about to shout abroad either.  The deal with these people was a natural one to make, but I have no intention of keeping it.”

            “Hmm,” Remy broke in on a reflective murmur. “Lemme guess. Dey want us t' split fifty-fifty, and since dis booty is de culmination of your life's work, you ain't willin' to share, right?”

            “Precisely.  Their insignificant objectives mean nothing to me.  Compared to my work, all other endeavours are mere seeds floating on the wind, tossed this way and that, unheeded by the great forces of time, of evolution.  Only _my_ endeavours prevail, only _mine_ will gain immortality, LeBeau, and that is why you will bring the mutant to _me_ and me alone, I will tolerate nothing less from you.”

            “And if our associates object?” Remy inquired, ignoring the sense of foreboding that was now creeping steadily through him like a frost, cold and unforgiving.

            “Kill them,” came the nonchalant reply. “Once we have obtained our quarry, I will have no further use for them.”

            Kill them.  It was a command he'd heard many times before, but this was the first time it left such a bitter taste in his mouth and he didn't know why. “And de goods?  Who is it we're looking for?”

            It was a name Remy already knew very well.

            “Rachel Summers.”

  -oOo-

-END OF PART FIVE-


	19. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue and Remy meet again under unexpected and ultimately explosive conditions. And Rogue absorbs Irene in an action that will have profound and lasting consequences.

\- PART SIX -

_Winter 2012_

 

            "Rogue?  D'you think you could come out anytime soon?  Only Mystique sent me and Dom wading through sewers just to get to New York's main power grid this afternoon and I feel like I'm gonna catch some totally last century disease or somethin'.”

            “Sorry, St. John!” Rogue shouted back from within the shower as she reached for the shampoo. “But you'll have to wait your turn!  Ah'm kinda busy right now!”

            She heard Pyro mouth some obscenities, but ducked back under the jet stream before she could hear anymore complaints.  Here in their new, ramshackle headquarters, there wasn't even any basic central heating, and as luck would have it, it was now the coldest winter for seventeen years.  Rogue's room was like its very own ice cube, and the only respite she got from the cold was here, standing under the shower.  Installing heating was the last thing on Raven's agenda, and the guy who could actually build the damn thing - Forge - was busy on some other project that was consuming most of his time, energy, and social hours.  Rogue hadn't even seen him for days.  Mystique too seemed to be in a frenzy of activity, poring over books and charts and spending whole nights sat in front of her laptop, square-eyed, which led Rogue to suspect that the Brotherhood's next big mission was in the pipeline.

            The past year and a half, things had been relatively quiet, what with the Troy Rifkind debacle.  Overnight Rogue had gone from being a low-level mutant terrorist to top of the country's most wanted list.  Consequently Mystique had moved their base to the very outskirts of the City, where she had forbidden Rogue from engaging in any activities for the next few months.  Rogue had not objected to this, preferring to lay low for a while; but then she had begun to pester Mystique once more for work, and Raven had finally, albeit grudgingly, allowed her to go out on some minor excursions.

            The reason Rogue asked for this work had less to do with the thrill of the chase than with seeing Remy again.  She wondered whether he was looking for her, even worrying about her, for to all intents and purposes she had dropped off the face of the earth, breaking off all her usual contacts and of course, dying the white streak in her hair brown.  Yet she had never quite given up faith that he would find her, somehow - he always had in the past, without any seeming rhyme or reason, and she had suspected more than once that he was having her followed.  But the months slipped by, and he never once showed his face.  She didn't dare go to any of her old haunts for fear of being recognised, and besides, Mystique refused to send her on big jobs in the City, she said it was too dangerous and she wasn't willing to put Rogue into such jeopardy.  Nevertheless, there were times that Rogue would loiter about in one specific place, on a street corner or by a lamppost, for no other reason than to wait for someone to approach her, for _him_ to approach her…  But he never did.  However long she stood, in the rain or the cold, in the darkness of night, there would be no rendezvous, no impromptu appearance as if from thin air, the kind she had always come to expect; invariably she would leave empty-handed.

            By the seventh month she had learnt to accept that he was no longer looking for her.  She wondered if he had forgotten about her, or given up on her, or even worse, was injured or dead.  Maybe he thought that she didn't want to be found.  She had after all made herself invisible for several months, and she couldn't quite entertain the fact that he didn't want to see her again, not after their last parting, not after seeing the look in his eyes when he'd left her.

            But then, of course, she knew so very little about him, except that he was unpredictable and fickle by nature, and that his urges may have taken him to the doors of many more women besides her.  And yet still she could not believe he would abandon her, however far from her path he strayed.

            For the next ten minutes or so Rogue let these thoughts consume her, and when she emerged from the shower the bathroom was enveloped in a dense cloud of steam.  She towelled slowly and dressed, not wanting to leave the relative comfort and warmth; when she finally came outside, St. John was practically foaming at the mouth.

            “Thank bloody God!  I always knew you Sheilas take ages in the bathroom, but not this bloody long!”

            “Ah was busy,” Rogue replied, grimacing a little; she had to admit that her pyromaniac comrade definitely smelled like he had walked through a sewer and then some. “Mah Gawd, yah stink!”

            “Tell me about it,” St. John muttered miserably. “I figured that since you'd forfeited all the undercover ops, me and Dom would get something exciting, but Mystique's _still_ makin' us do all the dirty work.  Why doesn't she make _you_ do them?  It's not like you're busy these days.”

            “Ah'm her daughter,” Rogue answered with a slight smile. “Ah get certain privileges you boys don't.”

            “It's bloody favouritism, that's what it is,” St. John grumbled. “Me and Dom have been workin' for the Brotherhood way longer than you or Forge have, even while you were with those X-Geeks.  It's days like these I wish I could go back to my writing.  Not that anyone would read the philosophical ramblings of a mutant terrorist these days,” he added as a morose afterthought.

            “Philosophical ramblings?” Rogue snorted. “More like flimsy airport romances to me.”

            “You just have no taste in good literature,” Pyro sniffed haughtily. “One day, when all this is over and the Brotherhood free the mutant race, I'm going to write my autobiography and it'll get rave reviews.  I'll be everyone's favourite hero - Captain America can go eat his overrated heart out.”

            “So you’re gonna be the hero who waded through sewer sludge and came out smellin' like a baby's butt?” Rogue noted dryly. “Sounds like you're onto a winnin' formula already, sugah.”

            It was an unfortunate fact that Pyro was often put upon for having a romantic soul, and by now he was used to the teasing, so he ignored her statement.

            “You can be my heroine, if you like,” he winked at her. “The famous Pyro and the infamous girl with the white streak in her hair.  Now _that_ sounds like a winning formula to me.  Speaking of,” he continued slyly, narrowing his eyes and staring at her hair, “I see the white streak's made a comeback.  Oy, oy, Mystique ain't gonna like that.”

            “Mystique can go suck lemons for all Ah care,” Rogue scowled at him, blowing a wet lock of white hair from her face. “Ah'm done with all that dyin'.  Oh and St. John…” she added as she began to walk away down the corridor, “yah really need t' take that shower.  Yah stink almost as much as your novels do.”

 -oOo-

            The house was quiet - Forge was still tinkering away with God knew what in his makeshift workshop; Irene as usual was sitting in her little study, writing, meditating, doing whatever it was that she did when she was alone.  Rogue stopped outside her door in an almost involuntary reflex.  It wasn't the first time that she had considered knocking on that door and asking her foster-mother whether her future with Remy had become any clearer, but for some reason she always decided against it.  That day was no exception.  Perhaps she didn't want to believe that Fate always had the answers; that there were some things best left to coincidence and circumstance.  Or perhaps she was merely too afraid of Irene's answer - at any rate she turned away from that little door as she often did, and found herself walking down to the kitchen.

            It was a surprise to find Mystique in there, standing over the dining table, perusing several large blueprints laid out in front of her.  She looked up when Rogue walked in; Rogue ignored her, went to the half-empty coffee-pot and poured herself a mug-full, pointedly keeping her back on her foster-mother.

            “Rogue --”

            Mystique's voice was already tellingly low and prickly, and Rogue quickly cut her off.

            “Ah don't want t' discuss it Mystique.”

            “This is a bad idea and I don't like it.”

            “So what?” Rogue found herself snapping; she was clutching the mug handle so tight she thought it would shatter in her grasp. “Yah never like anythin' Ah do anyway.”

            “That's not true and you know it.  I'm thinking of your _safety_ here, Rogue, and I am merely tired of having that sentiment continually thrown back in my face.  I am your mother and every rule I make is made in your best interests and _not_ to hinder or thwart you, as you seem so bent on believing!”

            “Well, maybe Ah'm tired of you havin' mah best interests at heart,” Rogue commented wearily.  She didn't want to argue, not about this… “Mystique,” she began, turning round to face her, “ _momma_ , for once, please just let me have this one indulgence.  Ah _like_ mah skunk stripe.  It's a part of who Ah am, and Ah'm tired of stampin' out a part of myself.  You don't force Pyro to stop playin' with matches, or Forge to stop makin' those useless trinkets he leaves lyin' round the house -”

            “That is _totally_ different -”

            “- or Irene from writin' those stupid predictions which may one day make her crazy as well as blind.”

            There was a silence, during which Rogue knew she'd pushed it too far - Raven's eyes were suddenly flashing coldly in the dimness, and for a moment Rogue thought she would lash out and hit; but suddenly the moment was gone.

            “All right, Rogue,” she said very softly, very quietly, though her eyes still glittered dangerously. “Have it your way.  Keep it.  Just don't come crying to me when it gets you burnt.”

            She sat down at the table and calmly perused the blueprints again, but her mouth was thin and taut.  Rogue sighed.  She didn't know how Raven always managed to make her feel guilty.  She never meant to use Irene as a weapon against her foster-mother, but somehow it was the only way to get through to Raven, even though Rogue almost always ended up regretting it.

            “Look, momma,” she began in a placating tone, “surely it can't do any harm anymore, can it?  The whole thing with Troy Rifkind died down months ago.  They ain't lookin' for me anymore - it's been nearly a year since they stopped.  All they care about nowadays is findin' Magneto and stoppin' that rebellion he's s'pposed to be spearheadin'.  Ah'm last week's news and so what if Ah want a little bit of mah identity back?”

            “You are a fool, Rogue, if you believe they've forgotten about you,” Mystique replied stiffly. “But since you are an adult woman, and since you are quite determined in the matter, I can see that any objection on my part will have no effect on you whatsoever.  You may please yourself, of course - but there is a reason why this whim of yours was bad timing on your part.”

            It was only then that Rogue noticed the implication of Mystique's perusal of the blueprints, Forge's obsession with his new toys, and Irene becoming a virtual recluse in her room.

            “You're gonna be puttin' me on a mission,” she murmured.

            Raven raised her eyes to hers, the sly, insect-like expression back on her face.

            “Yes.  A very important one, Rogue, one that may very well be the culmination of all our years of hard work; not to mention the end of the suffering of many.  You are my natural choice for this task, Rogue - any of the others simply will not do.  I can afford no mistakes on this mission, Rogue.  I have discussed every facet of it in great detail with Irene, and she agrees that it is you that must be chosen to carry it out.”

            Rogue stood still, silent, her gut churning ominously.  The fervour in Mystique's face made it plain to her that she was serious - that she believed that this was the one quest that may make all their years of combined hardship worthwhile.  What such a quest entailed Rogue had no clue, except that already it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

            “What do you want me t' do?” she asked quietly, her tongue dry.

            “I'll be holding a meeting tomorrow to discuss it,” Raven replied coolly, turning back to her documents. “In the meantime, I suggest you train for the forthcoming assignment.  You'll be needing all the skills you possess to complete it.  Do not be mistaken, Rogue - people like you and I, we _have_ no identity.  We never did.  That is why we do what we do - to give birth to ourselves, to seek a way to truly become human.  And,” her voice softened to a whisper, “for the first time in my life, I believe that search may almost be over.”

 -oOo-

            Rogue slept little that night - it had been many months since the psyches in her head had been so restless, and she spent many hours in bed listening to the screams that only she could hear, screams that were somehow more insistent than they had ever been before.  She lay there and stared up into the grey expanse of ceiling that gathered over her, wreathed in the dread certainty that she alone was receptacle for all the many lives and psyches she now held to ransom, a ransom that could never be paid.  Only the memories of her ghosts remained, memories that she would allow to consume her, own her, fill her almost to the precipice of madness, until she could no longer tell what was hers and what belonged to the ghosts.  Their cries became hers; it was the mantra she cried every night, penance for all the terrible sins she had committed, the ones that would follow her to her grave and into the darkness.

            And yet could it be that Mystique was right; that soon their days of seeking would be over?

           

            The next morning she woke up feeling slow and sluggish; her head ached in the unique way that it ached when she had absorbed too many too fast - the hangover of a hundred souls fighting to be free.

            It was second nature now to ignore such discomfort.

            Mystique was locked up in her office, no doubt contemplating her new strategy.  Rogue took her absence as an ominous sign - she dragged her feet through the day, uncharacteristically tense, as if the final, reckoning blow of Fate was looming above her head, sword-sharp and unforgiving.  It was as though she would not live out the day.  Even Dominic and St. John shared her sense of perturbation.  It was less the beginning of something big than the ending of something pitiful and languishing, the feeling that neither she nor them would wake up the same when it was over.

            She wondered whether this was the same way Irene felt every day of her life.

            Such despair, she felt sure, should surely lead to madness, let alone blindness.

           

            It was late afternoon when Mystique finally emerged from her room and declared to the house: “Meeting.  In the operations room.  Two hours.  Make sure you're all there - I won't tolerate any stragglers.”

            Rogue slipped into the operations room half an hour earlier than required - she wanted to get this over and done with, she wanted to be the first to enter and the first to leave, for everything to be as painless as possible.  She sat in the same rickety chair she always took when she came in here, put her legs up on the same old table nearby and rocked herself with her feet.  Her sense of fate, of purpose, had never felt so acute as it had done at that moment; as if all the hours she'd ever lived bled into this one moment.

            At last the others filtered in, oddly silent and with an eerie aplomb, as though the meeting deserved the same reverence as something slightly sacred.  Dom and St. John sat on the sofa opposite her; Forge in a battered armchair near the door.  He looked tired - his eyes were ringed and his face was more lined than she had ever remembered it.  Irene was next - an unexpected and portentous addition - leaning a little on her mahogany cane.  She took her seat a little behind Rogue and to the left - it was an uncomfortable position from Rogue's point of view, since she had the sensation that blind though the older woman was, she was gazing right through Rogue's back into the very depths of her soul.  Rogue merely ignored this, continuing the casual rocking of her chair with her feet, though the feeling unsettled her, increased her sense of foreboding even more.

            Mystique, of course, was last, sweeping into the room with a tense stiffness that betrayed her true feelings.  Rogue read them instinctively.  For the first time Raven was nervous, worried, scared even.  It was coming off her in waves, infecting those about her with an agitation none could quite contain.  Dominic awkwardly shuffled his feet; Pyro flicked his lighter in an uncontrollable nervous tic.  Forge stared at the floor, feigning impassivity.  Irene, as far as Rogue could tell, remained still as a mouse.

            Rogue merely rocked a little faster as Raven took her seat at the other end of the table.  Her eyes were like gimlets, drilling into each and every one of those present, who balked slightly under her gaze.  Her expression held the quality of a cobra poised to strike.

            “I'm glad to see we've all made it,” she said at last - her tone was higher pitched than usual, but it did not waver. “For as you may or may not know, there is something of great importance I wish to discuss.” She paused, looking round the room at those assembled, before continuing. “It is my very dear hope that we are about to commence our last great struggle before we reach that which we have always striven to attain - freedom for mutants, from the government, from the military, from the Sentinels, from the Hounds.  It is why we are here, in this room, together, today.  It is what the Brotherhood came into being to achieve.  And at last,” she paused briefly for dramatic effect, “I believe our goal is finally in sight.”

            She halted; there was not a person in the room that dared to interrupt her.  After a moment, she began again.

            “Over the past couple of years, you may not have been aware that Destiny and I have been continually conferring on how to draw this struggle to a close.  Within this time, her visions of the future have taken a strikingly vivid new dimension, one that seems to suggest that we are coming to an important crossroads on the path of that which we call Fate.  Together the two of us have attempted to decipher that which she has witnessed, to prise out that thread of the future that is most desirable to us mutants.  It has been no small task, but one, I think, that has led to a modicum of success.  We are certain that, should this new and latest endeavour prove successful, our chances of ridding ourselves of the Sentinels and a future of oppression will be guaranteed.  Yes - that our struggle will finally be over.

            “This assurance that the future in question was the one we had always sought for led me to instigate the mission into the heart of Trask Technologies' mutant database.  This was not merely a simple task of destroying Trask's files and disseminating this information to our allies - it was an assignment that had a very specific purpose.  Trask's database held knowledge of a certain mutant, whose information I withheld and kept entirely to myself.  This mutant, my friends, is the key to the future of this world.  And when I say this I do so in strictest sense.  This world _cannot_ survive without them.”

            “Peh,” Dominic snorted from the sidelines, his expression scornful. “You mean we've been gearin' up to find some sort of mutant saviour?  I thought dreams like that died along with that crackpot Xavier.”

            “Saviour is but a word, Dominic,” Mystique replied testily, “and you may call it what you like.  It still doesn't change the fact that Irene has _seen_ what this particular mutant can do with the future - _our_ future.  You would do well not to take her lightly.”

            “So it's a she,” Forge mused. “ _Who_?”

            “Her name is Rachel Summers,” Raven spoke, an odd strain of triumph in her voice. “Yes - the very daughter of Scott Summers and Jean Grey.”

            “Rachel?” Only slight surprise laced Rogue's voice. “Ain't she a Hound now?  One of Ahab's sick mutant pets?”

            “That's right,” Mystique nodded. “She works for Ahab now, rooting out mutants for him with her telepathic powers.  She is a traitor to our kind - but not a willing one.  Sources suggest to us that Ahab puts all his Hounds under some sort of brainwashing.”

            “Sources?” Rogue raised a suspicious eyebrow. “What kinda sources?”

            “I'll get to that in a minute,” Mystique replied firmly.  Was it an element of apprehension Rogue now saw in her foster-mother's eyes?  Still, she made no sign that she'd noticed this, as she continued casually rocking her chair back and forth as if nothing could ever rattle her again. “Trask's database,” Mystique continued, “contained a whole wealth of information on Miss. Summers.  It seems she is Ahab's prize pet, the best of all the Hounds that he possesses.  She has been the bane of many mutants, mutants like us who have fought to free ourselves from bondage.  Luckily, we have escaped her treachery these past few years.”

            “I heard she was the one who murdered Eileen,” Pyro interrupted darkly. “And yet we're meant to be rescuin' her?  It doesn't add up, Raven - I say we should kill her.”

            There was a grunt of assent from Dominic's direction, but Raven turned on them angrily, her eyes blazing yellow fire.

            “Have you two not listened to word I've said?” she hissed. “Is it any wonder that I refuse to hand you the undercover ops when all you can do is moan and gripe?  Rachel is our _future_.  And despite the fact that she is a traitor, she is an innocent victim of Ahab and his tortures - she has made sacrifices, just as we have had to.  Let us not forget that.”

            “But what makes _her_ so special?” Dom persisted belligerently. “What makes _her_ a freakin' mutant saviour?”

            “Her powers,” Irene said softly from the corner, the first words she had spoken all evening. “A power that I can only dream of.”

            “What - telepathy?” Dom said incredulously.

            “No,” Rogue interjected in an enlightened murmur, shaking her head as she suddenly realised what it all meant. “The ability to chronoskim.  Xavier was trying to cultivate it in her before he died… I don't know whether she ever mastered it.”

            “Chrono- _what_?!” Dom demanded breathlessly.  Rogue looked over at him.

            “Chronoskim.  It means that she can jump to any point in time she chooses.”

            St. John's look was one of disbelief. “You mean… she can jump back into the past?”

            “And take anyone with her,” Rogue nodded.

            “You mean, back to before the Sentinels ruled?” he continued, wonder crossing his face. “Back to before Eileen - _everyone_ \- died?  You mean we could effectively _rewrite history_?”

            “There is that possibility,” Mystique broke in keenly. “But Trask's database has informed me that is not the only facet of her power.  Time, of course, is far from linear, St. John.  It flows in all directions, not merely in one straight line.”

            “Meaning?” Pyro prompted impatiently.

            “Meaning, bird brain,” Forge interrupted snidely, “that as well as being able to jump backwards _or_ forwards in time, Miss. Summers also has the ability to jump _sideways_ \- effectively into other timelines - parallel universes, if you like.”

            “Ooooh.” Pyro's expression was half-sarcastic, half-nonplussed.

            “Meaning she could take anyone she chose to any other timeline she wished,” Rogue finished on a breath. “To a world that was free from all of _this_.” She looked up at Mystique. “If only Ah had known… if only Ah had remembered Xavier mentionin' this… Maybe we would've been able to find her sooner… stop this earlier…”

            “It doesn't matter,” Raven brushed aside the comment with a hand. “Besides, we cannot entirely be sure how Rachel's power works.  Could she transport the entire mutant race through time itself?  Or only one at a time?  And if she were to go back into the past and rearrange it, how would it effect those of us that were left behind?”

            “Urgh,” Dominic groaned. “Now that's some kinda mind-fuck right there.”

            “Indeed,” Mystique replied wryly. “But these questions are of no moment now.  Our priority at present is to recover her, and answer any questions later.”

            “There is a slight problem,” Forge spoke up from his armchair. “And that's the simple fact that Miss. Summers is a Hound - an elite form of mutant killing machine no less.  And she's cooped up with hundreds of the nasties.  How are we supposed to rescue her?  And even if we do, what then?  How do we stop her from turning on us?”

            “Very good questions,” Raven nodded at the Maker approvingly. “And I do have an answer - which brings me to a part of our plan that some of you may not like.”

            There was a silence at this.  Everyone looked at one another, tense, questioning.

            “As I mentioned before,” Mystique ploughed on, ignoring everyone's trepidation, “I have been informed that the Hounds are kept in line by Ahab - through a less than subtle form of mind control, wherein the brain is reprogrammed to obey the commands of the Hound master - namely Ahab himself.  Even if the Hound were to see us, even if they were to recognise us as a friend, they would not be able to subvert the brain’s programming, try though they might.  But there is one person who knows the key to deprogramming a Hound's mind.  Nathaniel Essex, the one they call Sinister.” She paused, adding very lightly, though with an undercurrent of distaste. “I have made a deal with him.”

            There was a sudden uproar in the room.

            “ _What_?!” Pyro cried in indignation. “Us - the Brotherhood - teamin' up with scum like him?!”

            “A murderer of mutants?!” Dom added. Even Rogue could not contain her outrage.

            “Yah went and made a deal with _him_?!” she exclaimed. “Mystique - both him and his flunkies murdered the Morlocks _way_ before the government went all anti-mutant and decided to send us off into camps!  The things he does… _Unspeakable_ things… Experimentin' on mutants, keepin' them alive long enough to watch him rip them apart… Ah've heard stories, _seen_ things no one should ever haveta see…” She trailed off, shuddering involuntarily at the memories of cleaning out one of Essex's abandoned labs back when she had been an X-Man - she hadn't been able to sleep for weeks after.

            “I wholeheartedly concur,” Raven answered grimly. “But in light of the circumstances, we need his help.  We cannot retrieve Rachel Summers without his assistance.”

            “Desperate times call for desperate measures, huh?” Rogue muttered viciously, now rocking her chair furiously with her feet.

            “Exactly.  But don’t worry, darling.  We won't be dealing with Sinister directly.  This mission will merely require the aid of one of his operatives, someone who will serve his interests.  In which case, Rogue, I'd like you to meet our new comrade-in-arms - although I don't believe any introductions are necessary, since you were both once teammates.”

            She indicated to the doorway, in which a figure had suddenly materialised - for how long it had been there, Rogue was not quite sure.  And there he was, just as he always appeared, out of the blue; a beautiful and deadly incubus that haunted all her dreams and nightmares, unchanged through the long months they'd been apart.  Remy.  His eyes on hers, stealing her breath away, burning her up… And suddenly she realised.

            _Sinister.  He's been working for Sinister.  Freein' mutants and takin' them back to him as fuel for his sick experiments.  He's just as much a traitor as Rachel - even more so b'cause he's been doin' it willingly…_

She paused in her rocking, feeling something ugly and slimy climbing her stomach, into her chest, up into her throat… She averted her eyes quickly, her jaw tense and aching, wanting to vomit, because this wasn't _him_ , it wasn't the man she'd spent those few precious nights with, the man she thought she'd known…

            But she hadn't known him, not really.  Even back in the X-Men.  He'd never said anything about himself, never told her anything about his past.  And still she'd been blind enough to trust him.  To _love_ him.

           

            At the realisation of who and what he was she'd never felt a greater sense of betrayal.  It was the cold thing suddenly crawling through her, breaking her heart, making her want to be physically sick.

            She clamped her mouth shut and stared down at the table.

            “Gambit here is to be treated as one of us from now on,” Raven explained. “And Rogue - you will be working with him for the duration of the assignment.  We share the same mission, although it must be stressed that our goals are, of course, very different.  Nevertheless, it is time we put aside our petty differences and looked towards the bigger picture.” She shifted her eyes towards Gambit - Rogue could still feel his gaze on her back, but she did not turn. “Sinister, as anticipated, likes to hold his cards close to his chest, and so, I would like to point out to our guest, do we.  As security we have not informed him of the location of Rachel; he likewise, has not informed us of the process required to deprogram a Hound.  This surety means that each party shall receive its spoils fairly.  I trust both you and your employer have no objection to this, LeBeau,” Raven concluded coolly.

            “We have no objections,” Gambit returned in a genial manner, though Rogue could still feel the intensity of his gaze and it made her own eyes begin to water. “On de contrary, Raven, it's a good way t' do business.  Nice and clean and simple, makin' sure we all get along jes’ fine.”

            He was goading her, she could feel it.  Goading her to look at him, goading her to say something, anything.  The tension in her was palpable, a tangible thing worming its way out of her and suddenly she was up on her feet, slamming her hand on the table, glaring down at Mystique and shouting: “Raven, this is madness!  We can't do it, we can't deal with the likes of Sinister!  There must be some other way of finding out how to get t' Rachel - _any_ way!  Surely Trask has somethin' in his database --”

            “He does not,” Raven retorted quietly, but Rogue ignored her.

            “Look, we _cannot_ do this! Why, of _all_ people, _why_ Sinister?  Why should we trust someone like him - a madman, a murderer?  And yet we're willin' t' help him out?  Even Xavier wouldn't have stood for it - there are just some things in this world yah _can't_ do!  We - we should kill him now and have done with it!”

            From the doorway, all trace of mirth had vanished from Gambit's face as he stared, narrow-eyed, at her hostile profile.

            “You a killer now, Rogue?” he spoke softly. “I thought X-Men weren't killers.”

            “Don't talk to me about bein' an X-Man!” she rounded on him suddenly, facing him for the first time since he'd entered, eyes blazing, the ugly thing in her stirring once more. “You were one too, once!  Or don't you remember?!” He was so quiet, so beautiful, and she pushed away the sudden flame inside her stomach, pushed it away with all her might… “How long has it been, Remy?  How long have you been involved with him?!” He was silent, yet his eyes were unwavering as he looked at her and suddenly she knew. “It was b'fore the X-Men wasn't it,” she stated in a whisper and then she was laughing, cold, manic, her head dangerously light. “You were in his pocket all along, since before Ah met yah, since before Xavier took you in… How long would it have been, Remy, before you sold us to him too?  You're nothin' but a traitor, a liar and a hypocrite!”

            She was trembling, shaking at the horrible words coming out of her mouth, horrible because they were true, because they were the only truth she knew of him.  But he merely let out a bitter bark of a laugh and shook his head scornfully.

            “You don't know anyt'ing about it, Rogue.  I've always been bad, chere, bad to de bone.  I ain't no hypocrite.  Of all de people in dis room, you de one who oughta know what a hypocrite looks like.  Besides,” he added with a sneer, “do you really t'ink dis fucked up world differentiates between the devils and angels anymore?  D'you t'ink Xavier's trumped up morals figure into dis whole brave new world scenario de statics have created for people like us? Xavier's dead, Rogue.  _Dead_.  Get a fuckin' clue.”

            Rogue opened her mouth to retaliate, but Mystique cut her off before she could speak.

            “ _Enough!_   If the two of you are going to bicker, I suggest you take it outside!” She looked at Rogue, and said more calmly: “Rogue, the reason why we're working with Sinister is simple.  He has information that we don't.  That _nobody_ has.  And naturally, such information did not come for free.”

            Rogue shot a glance at Remy standing watchful in the doorway, then at Irene sitting calm and silent in the corner.

            “Lemme guess,” she returned in a low voice to Mystique, “Sinister wants a share in the booty, right?”

            Raven's glance was penetrating.

            “A sample of Rachel Summers' DNA.”

            She _knew_ it.

            “An' for what exactly?” she inquired on a breath.

            “That is up to Essex,” Mystique with a tone of having concluded the matter. “He has not inquired into our reasons for wanting the girl, so naturally I extended him the same courtesy.”

            “As if he couldn't guess,” Rogue retorted flippantly. “Especially with low-life Cajun snakes listenin' in at doors,” she added for the benefit of the man standing and watching her so unnervingly from the background.

            “If you have an objection to this mission, then I suggest you get over it - _now_.” Though Mystique's voice was level, her eyes were now glittering dangerously. “As I'm sure you know, _you_ , Rogue, are invaluable to the mission in a way no one else can be.  Now sit down.”

            A lump was now stuck firmly in Rogue's throat.  She swallowed down the expletives currently forming in her mouth and wordlessly sat down.  When everything was calm Raven glanced round the room again.  There was a hostile air in the room ever since Gambit had arrived, and Rogue sensed that she was not the only person unhappy to see him here in their inner sanctum.  It was almost as if they had been invaded.

            “Now, this particular assignment will take place in different phases,” Mystique began brusquely. “And whilst we know of Miss. Summers' location, there is the small matter of obtaining access and entry into the Hound pens.  Now, the nature of Hound Security is very complex and very rigid.  The access codes are constantly changing on a daily basis, and are set randomly.  Employees are not privy to the exact pattern the code itself takes.  It is merely downloaded onto their keycards via a computer that requires a set PIN code to activate.  The downloaded access codes are combined with bio-electronic data provided by the employee himself - in effect, no other person may use the card.  However, there is an overriding access code, one that opens all doors at all times irrespective of the unique twenty-four hour access code in use at the time.  The beauty of this code is its convenience.  It can be both downloaded onto keycard, or entered manually.  In our case, I think it is the former we shall have to make use of.

            “There are only two people alive who possess the overriding access codes.  One of these is Ahab himself.  The other is the Director of Hound Security.  Naturally, stealing the codes off Ahab would be tantamount to suicide, and cannot be risked.  Therefore our target must be the Director of Hound Security, Anton Simmons.

            “As it happens, Mr. Simmons is attending a gala at the Ritz tomorrow evening, a gala in honour of Trask's latest Sentinel project.  Doubtless you are all aware by now that the Ritz contains state-of-the-art anti-mutant security - an ambient field that dampens the effects of the X-gene and renders all mutant powers useless.  Many of the more high-profile guests - including Mr. Simmons himself - will also have been injected with nano-nullifying devices as is standard in government employees, in case of any mutant assassination attempt.” She paused, her eyes moving to linger on Rogue's. “It is for this reason that I require you for this phase of the mission, Rogue.”

            The stone in Rogue's throat had still not gone.  All the way through Raven's speech it had grown, expanded, solidified until she could hardly breathe.

            “What d'you want me t' do?” she whispered thickly.

            “You will attend the gala yourself, as a guest, and locate Simmons - I've already taken the liberty of arranging for your attendance.  Gambit will be waiting for you on the outside - with his disconcerting stare, I don't think he could get away with attending without being recognised as a mutant, so this part of the mission is entirely in your hands.  Naturally, your absorbing powers will be useless on Simmons, in which case you will have to recover the access codes by other means.  Use your subtle charms, Rogue, just as you did with Rifkind.  His bodyguards will, I think, be far more rigorous in their duties than Rifkind's were - Simmons is known for his efficiency in that area - but somehow I don't think he'll let them in as far as the bedroom. Steal his keycard and duplicate it using Forge's device.  As for Simmons himself, make sure he is not harmed, and that the master card is returned to him intact.  We can have no one suspecting our intentions, Rogue.  _No one_.”

            Rogue nodded slightly, her stomach roiling as she fought once more with the overwhelming urge to retch…

            “Pity Simmons ain't such a looker,” St. John heckled her mercilessly from the couch. “I heard he gets more kicks out of pencil pushing than he does out of women.  Won't be so easy as screwing Rifkind this time, will it Rogue?”

            Rogue said nothing.  She could feel the heat of Remy's gaze burning up her cheek.

            “How will Rogue be able to enter de party without bein' identified as a mutant?” she heard him ask at last; his voice was uncharacteristically flat.

            “That has already been taken care of,” Raven replied briskly. “I've had Forge updating his contraptions for some time now - he has now been able to create a device that will mask the X-gene from all standard government scanners.  Even the Hounds will be unable to sniff out your genetic scent.” She looked at Rogue. “The masking is now indefinite, and no longer works only in three-hour bursts.  There is no cause to worry.  You have as much time as you want to complete this mission.” Her gaze returned to Gambit. “You will be fitted with one as well, of course, just in case fringe security picks you up.”

            “What about us?” Dom pointed out, sounding a little offended that he and Pyro had been ignored so far. “What do _we_ do?”

            “Patience is a virtue, Dominic,” Raven reminded him testily. “And besides, I was just getting to that.  Once Rogue has retrieved the keycard or the access codes, she will call us to give us the all-clear signal.  The three of us will join both her and Gambit outside the Hound pens the following day at noon - that's lunchtime for the Hounds, and they will all be confined to their pens.  You, Forge and Pyro, will create a diversion, while Rogue, Gambit and I will infiltrate the pens.  And then you,” her eyes flickered over Gambit, “will perform the process that will free Rachel Summers from the mind control.”

            “And Rachel will be alone?” Gambit queried.

            “Yes,” Raven nodded. “Quite alone.  Each Hound has their own pen.  With the genetic masking we should be able to get in without alerting other Hounds in the area - unless, of course, Summers alerts them herself.”

            “And if dat happens?”

            “If that happens then we'll have to work fast.  I'm not prepared to let Rachel go, not under any circumstance.  We should have enough time to break her programming and get her out of there while the others create the diversion.  Of course, the diversion itself will have to be timed impeccably in order for this to work.” She glanced up at Pyro, Avalanche and Forge. “I will go over diversion tactics with the three of you tomorrow, separately.” She paused, settled back in her chair, and spread her hands out to them.

            “Any questions?”

            Pyro stared at Dom who shrugged back and shook his head.  Forge was silent, confident as ever.  Rogue could not see Gambit, though she could still feel him, looking at her.

            “I got a question,” he spoke up suddenly.  Raven looked mildly surprised, but indicated for him to speak anyway.

            “If Rogue gets into trouble, do I get to jump in and rescue her?”

            Rogue stiffened.  She had the strong desire to lash out at him.  After what had happened with Kincaid, with Guess… She didn't want his help ever again.

            “Are you questioning the competence of one of my best operatives?” Raven asked, eyebrow raised.

            “Non.  Of course not.  But wit' dese kinda operations, you can never be too careful…” There was a hint, just a hint, of the cad once more in his voice.  Raven was unmoved.

            “Your job is to back one another up,” she returned coolly. “If Rogue fails to get the codes, for whatever reason, feel free to jump in and help her out.  But I repeat - Simmons is to be left unharmed.  We cannot risk another scandal such as the one that happened with Troy Rifkind.  And please,” she added dryly, “keep the heroics to a minimum.  I know you have a certain penchant for overblown gestures of chivalry, but it will not be tolerated in this operation.  Do I make myself clear?”

            “Perfectly,” Gambit replied, equally dryly.

            “Very well,” Mystique finished, rising from her seat. “Then this meeting is concluded.  If there are any further questions, I'll be in my office.”

            There were several murmurings from those gathered as they got up and filed out.  Rogue remained seated, her heart still pounding painfully in her throat as she listened to the soft tapping of Irene's cane, and the sound was impassive, detached, as if nothing had happened.  That ugly thing flared inside her again, and she stared hard at the table, wanting the ground to consume her, for the world to consume her and leave nothing but ash…

            “Rogue?” Raven was looking down on her, her voice somehow softer, more personal, and she looked up. “I want to see you in my office for a further briefing in an hour's time.  Make sure you aren't late.”

            Rogue merely nodded her assent.  Any words now seemed to be beyond her.  Mystique gave another grim-faced nod and swept out of the room after the others.  Gambit, however, remained a moment longer, the warmth of his gaze lingering on her cheek, and she could feel him questing, searching her face, but she would give him no answers, not even with her eyes.  Before long he too left.

            She sat for what seemed like a long time, staring at the cracked and grimy window through which she could see nothing.  Her fingers closed over the pendant at her breast, the one thing she continued to hold onto because it was the only thing she had left, the only tenuous link she had with the past, with hope, with joy, with laughter, with innocence, with love.

            With a love that was gentle and pure and all the things she'd ever thought it would once be.

            Not this sham of a love, this love that wasn't real and never had been.

            She was angry.  Angry because she had allowed herself to be betrayed, angry because she had allowed herself to trust him, to fall in-love with him.  He was the only joy in her humdrum life, the only thing she lived for.  And now she found she had been living a lie.  She'd been living a lie based on him.  And no one had stopped her.

            _Irene_ hadn't stopped her.

            Suddenly she was on her feet, she was walking down the corridor, she was walking down the dark stairwell and towards Irene's tiny basement room.

            Her one ally, the only friend she'd thought she had in the world - and yet destiny had proved false once more.

 -oOo-

            She didn't even bother knocking.  Instead she threw open the door to find Irene sitting on her bed, mild and innocent - it was if she had been expecting Rogue all along.  But this was what Rogue had been anticipating; she slammed the door shut with a resounding bang that could not have described her sense of outrage better.

            “You knew!” she cried breathlessly, accusingly to the speechless woman in front of her. “You _knew_!”

            “My child, I know nothing until it happens.”

            “But you saw!  You _saw_ this would happen, you saw Remy, and Sinister…That was why you asked me if Ah trusted him last year!  Because you _knew_!” The words had all burst out of her on an enraged breath and she smashed her fist against the door jamb, tears now springing freely to her eyes. “Do you know how Ah felt, sittin' in that room with _him_ there, listenin' to everythin' Raven had to say?!  Ah've never felt so degraded, so _humiliated_ in all mah life!”

            “But you love him,” Irene pointed out evenly. “And love, as they say, conquers all.”

            There was the faintest trace of ridicule in Irene's voice as she said these words - or was it disillusion? - Rogue could not tell.  But there was _something_ there, something more than the mask of equanimity Irene always wore, some sign that real emotion existed in that quietly beating heart.  After a moment she wiped the moisture from her eyes with the heels of her hands, muttered: “He's a thief and a traitor and Ah _hate_ him.”

            “And yet your futures are still intertwined - vague and insubstantial, but _there_ nevertheless,” Irene returned, calm and controlled once more. Rogue stared at her, the rebelliousness inside her quelled, replaced with a gnawing tiredness.  She couldn't fight anymore.  The tide was too strong, she was being dragged down deeper and deeper into this so-called future, this destiny she had no control over… “Is it the mission that bothers you, or him?” Irene inquired softly.

            Rogue sank to the floor, stared at the blind woman with a new and chilling uncertainty…

            _Is she friend or is she foe… …?_

            She thought a moment.

            “Both,” she finally answered truthfully.  Despite everything Irene's presence always inspired nothing less than complete honesty.

            “For a future where there is freedom, I think both are small prices to pay,” Irene returned gravely. “Or perhaps it is not that you fear him, but that you fear your feelings for him, because you see no future for them.  Shy from this challenge, Rogue, and your fears will come true.  There will be no future for the two of you.”

            Rogue was silent.  It never ceased to disconcert her that Irene seemed to penetrate into the very depths of her soul, into the most intimate secrets she'd ever cherished and held close to her heart.  Almost instinctively she tucked the little butterfly pendant back inside her sweater.

            “Is it true?” she asked quietly. “Have you seen this future Raven's so bent on believin'?”

            Irene seemed to regard her open palms, a slight smile on her lips.

            “A little.”

            “And Rachel?  She’s s’pposed to be some sorta saviour?”

            Irene's tone was mild, agreeable. “Not simply of this future, my dear, but of many futures.  She is needed, Rogue.  That she is needed cannot be underestimated.  I have seen very many possibilities, and in all the strands of the future I have seen, she is of vital significance.” She paused, her smile flickering, her head finally rising to face Rogue’s. “And yet still you doubt?”

            Rogue said nothing, merely looking away to stare through the dusty window through which she could see nothing.

            “Ah don’t want t’ do this,” she murmured at last. “Ah… Ah'm afraid…”

            Irene was calm, blue eyes serene, expression unmoved.

            “Then touch me,” she spoke softly.  Rouge turned back to her, sharp-eyed.

            “But –”

            “See the future you are fighting for.”

            Rogue looked away again, brow creased, unwilling.  It was not merely a sense of rebellion against Mystique’s plan… nor more specifically of teaming up with Gambit… It was more than that.  It was having to absorb her foster mother, the one woman she would not dare to desecrate in any way, and whose powers she feared more than any other.

            But there was also temptation… A possibility that she could see beyond these horrors that now filled her life, that coloured her days in viscous shades of grey.  What if there _was_ something more?  What if there was a chance, a chance that the world could be set to rights once more and that she could be free to love, to _be_ once more…?

            It was not greed or bravery that made her finally get up and cross the room towards Irene, reaching out with a strangely steady hand, her face set.  It was a wild hope, a wild hope that maybe she would see herself as someone with something and someone to live for once more…

            The lightest of touches, mere fingertips on those old and wizened cheeks; she closed her eyes and _pulled_ …

            …And the tsunami crashed over her.

            Her whole life, her whole self, the entire _world_ … nothing more than a dream, one that could be unmade or evaporated with a single act or random event… that could be completely derailed by even one word uttered… And then the head rush, the conflagration of so many different futures exploding before her eyes like stars being born, giving life, dying out, one possibility after another blooming into existence only to flicker out no sooner had they begun… _madness_ … Darkness, then a starburst of light… and one end purpose, the end of _all_ things, a blaze of crimson fire and then …ashes… _gone_ …

            Rogue sprawled over onto her back as if sucker punched from out of nowhere, her breath coming in short, animal gasps as the visions exploded around her then slowly faded into the mundane hollowness of the real world, unbidden tears flooding over her cheeks.

            “Madness!” she rasped, her voice barely contained by the raggedness of her breaths. “Madness, Irene…!” She curled into a ball and wept.

            Irene slid off the bed, reached out for her shoulder and found it.

            “Yes,” she agreed calmly, but there was a different timbre to her voice, a severity Rogue had never heard before. “Madness, Rogue.  The battle was long and arduous, and it cost me my sight.  I even allowed it to rob the sanity and reason of the one I loved most.” Her hand, so small, so wizened, seemed suddenly to possess an inhuman strength, her fingers digging into Rogue's shoulder like talons. “Surely you must see now, Rogue, the dilemma I face daily.  You above all people know that there are some of us that possess powers that are a curse rather than a blessing.  And my power, Rogue… It is a wicked and pernicious thing, and I succumbed to it, destroying both myself and my beloved in the process.  That is why I continue along this path.  It is reparation, Rogue, for my sins - to make something good out of the evil I have wrought.  Now you see, you and I are not so wholly different as we appear.”

            Rogue shuddered, dry sobs racking her body, the world still black around her but for those last vestiges of probability that still clung to her.

            “We’re not alone,” she muttered. “There are others… _more_ … There will _always_ be more… We’ve been here a thousand times before… Just never like this…”

            “Shh, my darling,” Irene whispered. “Close your eyes and you will return… you will return, I promise…” Rogue felt her rub her shoulder soothingly and slowly the images began to fade until they became as ephemeral as smoke and disappeared without trace.

            “There was somethin’,” Rogue murmured what felt like many minutes after, as she stared at the cracks in the floorboards. “At the very end, Ah saw somethin’… No… It _was_ the end… The end of _everythin_ ’…”

            “And she will be there.  At the end,” Irene spoke softly.

            Rogue looked at her.

            “Rachel… …”

            Irene nodded. “And that is not all.  Rachel Summers is at several moments of vital importance within the Timestream.  And one of these moments will bring the end of Sentinel-rule forever.  Mutants will be able to live in peace once more.  My penance will be done; and yours too.”

            Rogue stared at the floorboards, the dusty grains of wood leading ever onward.

            And for the first time she saw the inescapable path that Destiny had bequeathed to her all along.

 -oOo-

            She stood outside Mystique's room for a long time, her fist hovering over the door, ready to knock yet not ready enough.  Her interview with Irene was still playing vividly in her mind; the power she had stolen still had its claws in her, filling her with a deep sense of foreboding.  A huge web of collusion seemed to have woven itself about her, a web in which Raven was no longer at the centre, not even Irene; now there was a sense that there was something entirely greater than herself, than anything; a driving force none of them could repel.  Mystique had _never_ been in control.

            It was the first time she had ever felt true sympathy for Mystique.  That fact alone seemed to give her some measure of strength. Raising her hand she knocked once, then entered.

            Raven was sitting at her desk, her chin propped in her hands, staring at some indefinite point in space a good way off to her right.  Only her eyes moved as Rogue entered, falling on the younger woman with that same old watchful expression.  But there was something else in her foster-mother's eyes, something she couldn't quite hide, but that nevertheless remained obscure…

            “Ah. Rogue,” Mystique's tone was pleasant yet confidential. “Please, sit down.”

            Rogue sat.  That same faint sense of dread was gnawing at her, only slightly tempered by the rage and indignation she had felt earlier.  There was nothing she wanted to say, no questions she could ask without wanting to rave at the unfairness of it all.  But even this sense of betrayal she could not hide from Raven, who looked at her as if she knew all she meant to say already.

            “I will be blunt with you, Rogue,” she began coolly. “But only because I know we are of the same mind, and because it is your right to be entrusted with what I am about to confide in you.” She paused, opened her hands and laid them on the desk in front of her. “I do not trust Sinister.”

            “Then why bargain with him?” Rogue broke out as if a dam had broken in her. “Why associate ourselves with the man at all?  He ain't interested in the mutant cause, Mystique.  He's just the same as Trask and Ahab and the government - he abuses mutants; even worse, tortures them for his experiments and for his own sick sense of entertainment!  We're making a pact with the Devil!”

            “In times like these it is sometimes not an option to decide with whom we get to make pacts,” Raven answered firmly. “And unfortunately, for this mission we _need_ Sinister's help.  He is the only person, Rogue - the _only_ person.  And we cannot afford to wait any longer.”

            “B'cause Irene says so?” Rogue cut in heatedly.

            “Because we have been idling away too long, taking only half-hearted stabs at the underbelly of this hateful government, and each time with little result.”

            Something inside Rogue simmered and burned and she suddenly burst out: “So yah call what I did with Troy Rifkind half-hearted then?!  And what happened with Guess, and Kincaid - were they all half-hearted too?!”

            Mystique did not even bat an eyelid.

            “Those were worthy contributions, Rogue, but not enough.  Now is the time to act - there can be no other pause for thought.” She paused, looked off into space again. “Irene has shown me what is at stake.  It is more than just our lives, more than just mutant lives, or even the lives of all in this world.  While Rachel Summers is enslaved, we have no hope.  That is why I am willing to make a pact with the so-called Devil.  It is for the greater good, Rogue.  It is for something better than _this_.” She looked back at her daughter again, her eyes now glinting. “However, I choose to enter this pact with open eyes.  Do not think for a moment that I am not aware of the risks involved.  Sinister is just as reliant on us as we are on him - for now.  When that tenuous balance no longer stands, there is no telling what he may do to us.”

            Rogue was silent, still feeling mutinous but unable to fault Mystique's logic.  After a moment Raven looked at her, her gaze penetrating, and asked very softly: “Do you trust the man, Gambit?”

            Rogue stared at the surface of the tabletop, that sense of dread rising in her throat, steady as a hand creeping round her neck, taking the breath out of her…  She opened her mouth, yet nothing would come out.  Of all the people she had ever trusted since the death of Xavier, he had been the one.  But now… Now…

            Mystique took her indecision as reluctance.

            “I understand the two of you were once teammates - believers in Xavier's great dream.” She spoke the latter words with a thinly veiled mockery, with a disdain she could still barely disguise. “Nevertheless, if he is now working for Sinister, he too cannot be trusted.  I hope you understand, Rogue, that you must be prepared to kill him, if needs be.  I know I can trust you in this.  You have proved to me time and again that you do not recoil in the face of death, whether threatened to or inflicted by yourself.  Though you and Gambit may once have had an association, a friendship or a bonding, it is in the past.  It is time to put such things aside, for the sake of the future we have sought for so long.”

            Rogue still stared at the table, her eyes stinging.

            “Ah understand,” she whispered hoarsely.  She said it because a part of her hated him, because a part of her _wanted_ him dead…

            “Good,” said Mystique in a brisk, business-like tone. “Then I believe we have concluded the matter.  Unless there are any other questions you wish to ask?”

            Rogue shook her head mutely.  Her head was now pounding, her heart hammering against the wall of her chest, and her throat was dry, she did not think she could speak even if she wanted to…

            “All right,” Raven nodded shortly. “You may go.  Tomorrow your assignment will commence.  Make sure you get adequate rest.  I'll speak to you before you leave tomorrow.”

            Rogue rose and moved to the door with legs that trembled like jelly.  But before she could escape, before she could flee this strange and decisive conversation forever, Mystique stopped her.

            “Rogue?”

            She halted at the door, hand poised over the handle.

            “Come back to me alive, my child.”

            That small statement was perhaps the greatest sentiment of love Raven would ever show her.  Nodding once at the pitted, wooden door with her heart in her throat, Rogue pushed on the handle and left.

 

            That night she dyed her white streak brown for what she hoped was the last time.

-oOo-


	20. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue has it out with Gambit, and the two part on bad terms before Rogue heads out on her mission to steal the Hound Pen codes from Anton Simmons. But things don't go to plan, and Rogue is forced to work with Gambit to salvage what they can from a disastrous assignment.

            When she woke the next morning, Remy had already left.  She didn’t mind - as far as she was concerned it was better if she never saw him again.  She trudged downstairs with that same sense of Fate looming above her.  Breakfast was a quiet and lonely affair, and she could stomach very little.  She spent the time going through her briefing notes and memorising Simmons' face.  Mystique had no more to say to her; when St. John walked in a little later, even he could find no parting jibe, no snide comment.

            By eleven the sky had turned a soupy shade of lilac; sleet began to fall but did not settle.  As usual Rogue went through the old ritual of packing her equipment for the mission ahead.  It was habit by now to take off her pendant before an assignment, to stow it carefully away in an inner pocket of her pack or bodysuit for good luck.  This time she considered throwing it aside as the useless piece of trash it really was, but some irrational part of her couldn't bear to be without it.  It defied logic, it was even irresponsible, but she left it hanging round her neck and tucked it securely inside her bodice anyway.  Then she left her room without once looking back and went downstairs.

            Mystique was waiting for her at the front door; so, unusually, was Irene.

            “All set?” Raven asked; her voice was low, business-like, but there was an undercurrent of emotion in her voice that spoke more than words could have done.

            “All set,” Rogue nodded briefly.

            “Good.  Then remember what we discussed, Rogue.  Make sure that no movement of yours is suspicious, and give Simmons no cause to believe anything odd is afoot.” She stepped forward and laid a firm hand on Rogue's shoulder. “I have a faith in you, Rogue, that I have in no other.  You have proved your worth to me.  Now it is time to prove your worth to the future.  Do not disappoint me, Rogue.  Do not disappoint the generations to come.” She leaned in slightly, her fingers suddenly hard on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear: “Remember - if you feel at all that he is being duplicitous… kill him.”

            It was as though a shard of ice had formed in Rogue's throat.  She swallowed, nodded.

            Assured, Mystique stepped back.  There would be no simpering words, no heartfelt embrace from her.  Yet there was a certain fanatical pride in her eyes that Rogue found disturbing; it was a blindness that was different to Irene's, yet it was a blindness nonetheless.  She turned slightly, her gaze falling onto the little old woman standing by the doorway, waiting, watching.

            “Goodbye, Irene,” she spoke.

            There was something in the timbre of that phrase that made it sound as if it would be last time she would ever say it.

            Irene smiled.

            “Choose wisely, my dear,” she said, quite cheerfully.

            There was no time to ponder on these words.  Fate was calling, and so, with her heart in her throat, she left.

           

            It didn't surprise Rogue that her rendezvous site with Gambit was the safe house.  It had, after all, been their rendezvous site for years.  Still, she resented him for making her come here as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed.  Because this time _everything_ had changed.

            Outside it was the same filthy, deserted apartment block; she climbed the same squalid stairwell that spiralled up, up towards that same opaque and grimy skylight.  It was the same door she stopped at, coloured in the very same chapped, red paint and with the very same number on the front.  All these things remained the same, and yet somehow, something was wholly, entirely different.

            The door was unlocked.  He had been expecting her.  She opened it, stepped through; she didn’t bother to lock and bolt it behind her.

            He was leaning by the window, looking out onto the courtyard below and smoking a cigarette, just the way he had been that first morning when she'd woken up and found him still there.  She dropped her bag with an irascible thud, announcing both her mood and presence.

            “Place seems familiar,” she'd remarked sarcastically instead of a greeting.

            “Ain't used it since we were last here,” he replied nonchalantly.  She stared at him.  She didn't like the way he said that, as if to remind her that this was _their_ place, their own little sanctuary.

            “Is that right?” she murmured coldly.

            He shrugged.

            “Woulda come here and cleaned up if I'd got some leisure time, but you know Sinny… he's de regular slave driver, don't get much vacation workin' wit' him…”

            She didn't even crack a smile, but dumped her bag in the accustomed corner of the room and shrugged off her jacket.  When she'd done this, she turned to find him with his back to the window and his eyes appraising her neutrally.

            “Why so angry, chere?” he asked quietly, calmly taking a drag of his cigarette. “Don’t recall you bein’ so prickly last time we met… Or the time before that neither…”

            Far from being cajoling, his tone was entirely serious.  He knew that light-heartedness would goad her even further, but she was so angry that it didn't make much difference whether he mocked her or not.

            “Ah didn't know you were workin' with Sinister back then,” she replied between clenched teeth.

            “Oh.” He was still completely calm, completely collected. “And if you'd known, dat would've made a difference?”

            She could feel the blood boiling in her, bubbling to the surface, all the rage and shame and guilt she'd stored away and bottled up over the years pushing against the dam she'd bricked around her heart, her soul… “ _Yes_ ,” she hissed.

            “Would it, really?” he asked, and he was pushing so hard, so goddamn hard she felt like _hitting_ him…

            “Why d'yah think Ah never asked, why Ah never wanted to know?!”

            “For de same reason I never asked you who _you_ were workin' for,” he replied matter-of-factly. “B'cause dat was business and what we had was -”

            “ _Pleasure_.  Yeah, Ah got it.” She turned away, stooped over her bags and rifled through them, looking for nothing, just an excuse not to have to talk to him, not to have to face the lying, traitorous bastard that he really was…  And because it had been more than just pleasure, and they both knew it.  This place… it had been her refuge, a second home.  For all its dinginess, for all its dirtiness, it was the place she had been happiest since her days with the X-Men; the place where all the remaining dreams she possessed had been played out.  It was the little chocolate box she liked to feast upon in her darkest hours when there was nothing else to comfort her but memories and a pendant.

            But now it was gone, all gone - the bubble burst, the house of cards fallen, the illusion faded.  This was nothing more than a room, and he… he was nothing more than a man she'd loved and could no longer trust.

            “Rogue,” he was saying behind her as she continued to rummage pointlessly through her pack, “if you've got a problem wit' Sinister, I ain't gonna blame you for dat.  I ain't askin' you t' like him.”

            “What're you doin' for that monster?!” she snapped. “Why d'you have t' work for _him_?!”

            “I don't have to work for him,” he answered simply. “But I owe him my life, Rogue, and dat's as good a reason as any.  He saved me from de mansion dat day, saved me from bein' put in a camp or bein' turned into a Hound or worse.  And as for what I'm doin' for him… Well, I'm sure you can guess what it is.”

            She'd stopped rummaging and stared at her bag, her heart thudding painfully.

            “You break out mutants,” she muttered. “An' turn them over to him…”

            “A minority of them, yes,” he answered.  More honesty - she didn't think he'd been so honest in all his life. “And it kills me to hand dat small few over, but it's a small price t' pay.”

            “Collateral damage?  For your own skin?” Her temper was flaring again.

            “It's a lesser of two evils, I guess.” She could feel him shrug. “I don't pretend t' be a good person, Rogue.  Why do you?”

            She swung round at him then, her chest exploding in a volcano of righteous indignation.

            “Because Ah didn't sell out, Remy!” she yelled at him. “Because Ah don't sell innocent souls!”

            There was something in his eyes, both a disdain and a sadness…

            “Then why've you sold your own, p'tit?” he asked her quietly.

            The words erupted something in her far more powerful than anger.  She choked, her eyes suddenly burning with moist fire as she clutched at the battered old wooden dresser beside her, steadying herself on suddenly weakened legs.

            “You don't know…” she stammered, her voice alien and high-pitched. “You don't know what it's like…”

            “ _Au contraire,_ I know exactly what it's like,” he retorted gravely. “Dat's why you and me do what we do.  And if you've got a beef wit' Sinister, I can tell you I got one helluva beef wit' Mystique.  How long has she been askin' you t'do it, huh?  Turn tricks just for de sake of de mission?”

            The flames were still twisting cruelly in her stomach, making her want to gag, to vomit… She couldn't look him in the eye.

            “It ain't like that… Ah don’t _have_ t' do it… It's just that sometimes Ah don’t have a choice… So many of the statics have wised up t' mutant tricks… They come prepared, they neutralise our powers… Sometimes Ah can't absorb information from them… Ah don't have the heart for torture or killin'… Ah haveta find other ways…”

            “And Mystique approved of dat, did she?” His voice, which had remained so calm up until now, was now taut with anger. “Did she train you how to use those 'subtle charms' of yours, Rogue?  'Cos I know it's de kind of thing she ain't above doin' either!”

            “No,” she replied quietly, her voice shaking. “It wasn't her, not at first.  It was me - it was _my_ decision. _Not_ hers.  Ah wasn't forced t' do a thing.  It’s just that…” she added in a whisper, “desperate times calls for desperate measures.”

            “Don’ give me none o’ dat bullshit,” he spat in frustration.  “No matter how fucked up dis world can get, don’t mean you gotta go sell yourself.”

            “You don’t understand…”

            “Yeah, I understand.  Mystique taught you t’ control your powers an’ you feel you owe her.  But dat don’t mean you gotta whore yourself for her!”

            It was the word she'd been avoiding.  To hear it out loud, for the first time, from _him_ , the flame of anger rose to a fever pitch all over again.

            “What do _you_ care?!” she shrieked at him in sudden anguish. “Ah was only ever just a whore t' you anyway!  And you know what, Remy?  Ah accepted it!  Ah accepted all the shit you threw at me, and still you have the nerve to preach at me when Ah don't belong t' you and Ah never did!  Or is it the fact that you ain't the only man who fucks me that bothers you?!” She paused, and a silence fell, breaking her, because she wanted him to admit it, she wanted him to own her, to embrace her, to protect her, but it'd always been too much for him and she knew he wouldn’t do it.

            “Rogue --”

            “ _No_!” she cut him off fiercely, her eyes beginning to sting threateningly again. “No more!  Ah'm sick of this, Remy - all of it!  Comin' here only once a year and bein' with you like it means somethin' more… Even if we wanted it to, it couldn't be, we both know it!  And Ah can't deal with that anymore, Ah just - Ah _can't_.” She swivelled round and picked up her bag again, swung it over her shoulder.

            “Where you goin'?” he asked, and from the tone of his voice she knew he was irritated more than concerned.

            “Away,” she answered simply, turning to the door. “Ah don’t need yah t' do this mission.  Ah can do it myself.  And if that means that Essex doesn't get Rachel's DNA, or whatever else he _really_ wants, then so much the better!”

            She jerked the door open, stepped over the threshold, and without once looking back shut him out of her life for good.

 -oOo-

            By the evening, it had stopped sleeting.  The street outside the Ritz was buzzing with life - limousines were pulling up in droves; a plethora of dapper men in tuxedos and beautiful, elegant ladies were being escorted up the red-carpeted stone steps, through the glass revolving doors and into the warmly lit hallway beyond.

            Rogue stepped out of the cheap taxi and paid her fare, feeling decidedly out of place amongst the crème de la crème of New York's elite.  Nevertheless she had made the effort to look the part, dressing in an elegant silk gown of shimmering champagne gold, coiling her hair back into a graceful chignon at the back of her head.  Though it was the depths of winter and the temperature had nearly dropped to freezing point since sundown, virtually all the ladies attending this gala were braving the weather in nothing more than skimpy, strapless concoctions, and as Rogue clattered up the steps towards the building, she longed for the functional comfort of her bodysuit.  She knew that Dominic had secreted her equipment pack in a little-used store cupboard on the same floor as Simmons' suite, and even now she was thinking of it longingly.  She had never felt this exposed since the incident with Rifkind.

            The reception area was filled with warmth and soft, pink, glowing lights.  The doorman was checking invitations - she had passed him hers, a cream coloured and ornate looking card that one of the Brotherhood had obviously gone to some effort in obtaining.  Her identity this evening was that of Marie D'Ancanto, a young heiress from Kentucky who'd recently come into her father's fortune and had philanthropic interests.  Her father, who'd been a supporter of Bolivar Trask's work, had made it his dying wish that his daughter involve herself in funding his research - hence Marie's attendance at the gala.  Mystique's briefing notes had covered everything in great detail, and Rogue did not find it difficult to immerse herself in the role.  During undercover ops like these, she would simply switch herself off, tap into one of the residual psyches that still haunted her brain, and let it do the work for her.  It afforded her the ability to distance herself from her mission, yet still retain a level of control.  Nevertheless, this was a bigger assignment than she'd had before and she couldn't help feeling nervous.  When the doorman handed back her invitation without question and indicated towards the function room, she couldn’t help but breathe an inner sigh of relief.

            She walked across the hallway with a confident stride, absently rearranging her dress over Forge's tiny masking device, which she had taped to her thigh.  The keycard duplicator had been sewn into the seam of her purse, which she now clutched tightly in her hand.  To let it go at any time would mean certain disaster.

            The sound of laughter, chatter, music and clinking glasses filtered out from the function room, telling her that the party was already well under way.  Rogue pushed open the highly polished mahogany doors and stepped inside, only to be enfolded in a fog of syrupy warmth, of lilting voices and a mishmash of different perfumes, all vying for attention.  She stood stationary by the doors for a moment, trying to gather her wits, trying to formulate a line of attack, a direction to walk in.  There had to be about a hundred guests there already, and she knew that she had to steer clear of Trask in case he happened to recognise her.  The best thing was to be as inconspicuous as possible, and so, she delved into the crowd.

            Here were several dozens of people, oblivious to her presence, her true nature - and ultimately, her true mission.  She was their enemy, she was hated and feared by them, and yet they took not the slightest notice of her.  As Rogue wove in and out of the heaving, pulsating throng of bodies, she wondered how many of these people were protected against her power.  If she were to stand in the middle of the crowd, if she were to spread her hands and let herself be touched, if she were to pull in the innermost secrets of these people, what would she find?  Fear and hatred for mutantkind?  Zealous and righteous indignation against people like her, people who were merely wanted to _be_?  And if she were to delve deeper, would she find their loves, their dreams, their sad little habits, their wildest fantasies, their sordid little perversions, their neuroses, the very crux of their beings, their very _selves_?  Would she see then why they feared her, why she feared them?

            She had reached the other end of the room, where an open bar was serving drinks - she ordered a martini and lemonade, ignoring the appreciative looks the handsome, Italian bartender sent her.  She wasn’t in the mood for flirtation, not after what had happened with Remy earlier that morning; and besides every last ounce of seductive skill had to be saved for use on Simmons.

            Having ordered her drink, she slipped into a corner and sipped at the sweet beverage, listening idly to the string quartet playing an elegant waltz from the opposite corner, her eyes scanning the crowd.  More people had arrived since she had - the place was literally swimming with well-heeled guests.  The main floor was heaving with people she didn’t recognise.  Simmons was nowhere in sight.

            _Where was he?_

            Rogue fingered her purse nervously and scoured the room once more, surprised when she found him dawdling in a corner just like she was.  From the character analysis she had been given, she had thought that he would have been at the heart of the crowd, in discussion with some business associate or another.  But he wasn’t.

            There he was, back against a wall, looking unenthusiastic and wary; the tired face with its ringed eyes, the thin-lipped mouth and the black hair streaked with grey.  Beside him were two, rather staid looking men - whom she guessed were his bodyguards - and a plain-looking woman in a dusty pink dress-suit that she didn’t recognise.

            _Now how to get his attention without lookin' obvious?_

            She plunged back into the crowd, re-emerging only a couple of metres away from him, directly in his line of sight.  However, she refrained from making any direct eye contact with him, and slowly insinuated herself into a group that was talking nearby.  As luck would have it, it was a small group of fashionable young twenty and thirty-somethings, who just happened to be discussing Hound security.  She plunged into the conversation effortlessly, as she had been trained to, but was careful not to sound too well-informed - Marie, she had decided, knew little of anti-mutant legislation or its enforcement.  She concentrated on making a pretty, if tactful, show of herself in front of Simmons, only once dropping her purse and taking the opportunity to shoot a glance at him whilst she was picking it up.  To her surprise, he was staring right at her, right into her eyes.  The look caught her off-guard, and she nearly stared back a split second too long, long enough to give away her true intentions - but she caught herself just in time, breaking eye contact before she could impart anything to her target.

            She continued to talk with the rather fatuous group for another five minutes, which was the height of tedium to her.  When she chanced to look around briefly once more, both Simmons and his small entourage were gone.

            This was shaping up to be harder than she thought.  Simmons was an older man with no known vices - a sober, clean-living widower since his wife and child had died in the Magneto riots eight years ago, a man who was more dedicated to his job than to life itself.  How was she supposed to ensnare him?  Rogue stood at the bar, wondering how next to tackle the man, when suddenly she felt a light, awkward tap on the shoulder, and a low, quiet and unfamiliar voice saying: “Excuse me… ma'am?  I believe you've dropped this?”

            She spun round to find herself staring into the plaintive brown eyes of Simmons himself.  Between his fingers he was holding up a long, thin chain of white gold - a tiny blue and green butterfly glittered on the end.  She could barely contain her surprise.

            “My pendant!” she exclaimed. “But how…?”

            “Perhaps the clasp’s broken?” he suggested softly.  Rogue opened her palm and he dropped the necklace into it - when she inspected it, the clasp was quite intact.

            “It's fine,” she murmured half to herself, puzzled. “Not broken at all… It must've somehow unclasped itself… That's odd.”

            Simmons smiled at her, a wan, tired smile - and yet the eyes she had first thought weak and ineffectual were gazing into hers intently, searching her face with undisguised interest.  So yet again, in a strange, roundabout way, her pendant, her good luck charm, had worked its magic and brought him to her…

            She didn’t have time to muse on it.

            “Thank you for returnin' it to me,” she said with a small smile - somehow she didn’t think overt sexuality would be the way to winning this man. “If you hadn't spotted it, Ah would've lost it for sure.”

            “It's no problem,” he assured her with that same wan smile; his voice was very soft, almost too soft, and there was something deferential and self-conscious about it. “But it seems a little shabby to be an item so precious to a young lady.”

            “It was… …  A very dear friend gave it to me,” she answered, her tone suddenly strained.  He seemed to sense that he'd hit a sore spot.

            “Ah,” was all he said.  Then he gestured to the necklace still lying coiled in her palm. “May I?”

            It was a split second before she realised that he was offering to fasten it for her.

            “Oh, of course!  Yes please.”

            He took the necklace and she turned; he took a long time fastening the catch, and she noticed that his hand trembled as he did so.  When he was done, she turned again.

            “Thank you,” she said.

            “Not at all,” he smiled again.  It was that same smile, genuine yet somehow woebegone; but those eyes were, once again, very active, roaming her face with an oddly calculating look that set her slightly off balance.  Still, he had come to her alone, which counted for something - his bodyguards were nowhere in sight, although she suspected they were somewhere nearby, looking in; the woman in the pink suit had vanished.  It was looking good.  She picked up her drink again and half-turned away from him, waiting for him to make the next move.  If he wasn’t interested in her now, he never would be.

            “If you don’t mind me saying so,” he began abruptly, yet still deferentially, “you're very young to be attending such a serious-minded function as this, Miss…”

            “Marie D'Ancanto,” she offered pleasantly.

            “Anton Simmons.” They shook hands - his grip was unexpectedly firm and strong, and his eyes were still intent on her face.  Still, she maintained her smile.

            “Ah suppose Ah am rather young, and to be honest, this is all a bit new to me… Ah haven't attended many functions, this must be my third in all… So Ah'm afraid Ah always end up acting a little awkward.”

            “Not at all.” His smile was fuller now. “You carry yourself with a certain… grace.”

            She blushed, coquettish.

            “It's very kind of you to say so, Mr. Simmons, but Ah'm afraid it's all down to my etiquette coach… My father wasn’t keen on me going out much before… He said he couldn’t bear it if I'd turned out all flighty and capricious… So Ah'm afraid Ah sometimes come across as being a little… socially inept?”

            He laughed. “I thought it was the duty of all young people to be flighty and capricious!”

            “Ah prefer to read books,” she remarked good-naturedly, feeling it was the right thing to say.

            “Ah.  And would that be your father's influence?”

            “Ah believe so.  But then, he's influenced a great many things in my life.  He's the reason Ah'm here tonight.”

            “Oh?” Simmons raised an eyebrow.  Rogue lowered her eyelids and played awkwardly with the stem of her wineglass.

            “He was a great supporter of Mr. Trask's projects back home in Kentucky.  When Ah…uh…inherited his fortune, he wished for me to invest in Mr. Trask's new Sentinel project.”

            “I see.” Simmons' eyes, while still intent, had lost some of their edge. “I am sorry for your loss, Miss. D'Ancanto.  But - if I may be so bold as to ask - do you share your father's interest in the Sentinel project?”

            “Ah'm afraid Ah don't know much about it,” she answered apologetically. “Ah was always more interested in books and studying, but, for my father's sake, Ah'd like to learn more about it.”

            “Ah.” His eyes were glistening again, and his smile was more cheerful now. “Then perhaps our meeting was not so incidental as it seems.” He offered her his arm and without hesitating, she took it. “For I happen to know quite a great deal on the subject.”

 -oOo-

            They spoke for what must have been an hour, perhaps more - time became malleable to her as they chatted, as she submerged her personality even deeper into the assumed identity of Marie D'Ancanto, whom she somehow felt already existed in her head.  Simmons' conversation was more stimulating and intellectual than most of the men she fraternised with - luckily the lesson on Sentinel technology didn’t last much longer than fifteen minutes, and after that they discussed books.

            It turned out that Simmons was a voracious reader - Rogue herself hadn't read many books beyond Harlequin romances, but there were many vague details she'd picked up over the years from the psyches she'd absorbed, details that floated passively in her head and seemed to emerge when she had most need of them.  Simmons, she learned, was a great admirer of Eastern cultures, and soon the conversation turned to the _Zhuangzi_ , a book of old Chinese philosophy, of which she remembered a great deal.

            “That's quite amazing,” Simmons had observed when she had mentioned the book. “Forgive me for saying so, but I never would've thought a young girl from rural Kentucky would have read anything so relatively obscure as Zhuangzi's philosophy.”

            “It's not so incredible,” she remarked modestly. “Everyone's heard the story about the man who dreamed he was a butterfly that dreamed it was a man.”

            His eyes flickered momentarily over the pendant at her neck before he said softly: “The story has a particular resonance for you?” It was both a statement and a question.

            “Ah think…” She paused.  She didn’t really know what she thought; so many things had changed. “Ah think maybe it did, once,” she finished in an undertone.

            He stared at her - his eyes were very intent again, and she didn’t know whether she liked it or not.

            “And now?” he asked.  She smiled faintly.

            “Things have changed.  Since my father passed away…” She faltered, her throat tightening; but she stemmed the sudden tidal wave with an effort. “Ah have no one to guide me now,” she finished simply, quietly, the stone still lodged stubbornly in her voice; yet she was able to hide it.

            “And does that frighten you?” he questioned, his gaze unblinking, scrutinising her with a seriousness and attentiveness that she'd never seen in the eyes of any man who'd perused her.  She paused, wondering what to say, meeting his staring eyes, looking away again…

            “Not really.  Ah'm just a girl, a girl who doesn’t know much about the world.  All Ah fear is what every other gal in this world fears.”

            “I don't believe so,” he returned quietly, and she could still feel his gaze scoring her cheek. “I believe your concerns are deeper than most women's, Marie.” He paused and she dared to look at him, her eyes questioning, her heart thudding ominously against the wall of her chest… “When I look into your eyes, I can see a depth there that I don’t see in most women's,” he added, without any hint of embarrassment.  She gaped. He half-smiled. “What is it that you fear, Marie?” he asked softly.

            She turned away again.  What did she fear?  What haunted her nights and dogged her each and every day?  What chased her down this path, what did she fear would await her at the end of it all?

            “Ah'm afraid of having no purpose,” she murmured on an impulse. “Of waking up one morning and finding that Ah have nothing left.  Of being alone.” Her eyelids flickered and her voice dropped a notch. “That Ah'll have no one to love.”

            It was a long moment before she could look at him again; when she did so, she found him silent, his lips pursed together in an oddly disapproving frown.

            _Have Ah said the wrong thing?  Have Ah just jeopardised the mission, will he walk away from me now?_

            She half-expected him to mumble an excuse and shuffle off, but instead he merely continued staring at her and said: “You're a very beautiful woman, Marie.  I don't think that you'll remain alone.”

            _Really?  But you don't know, Simmons - Ah'm already alone… Ah've always_ been _alone… And even when Ah was with someone Ah could love… even then Ah was alone…_

            Her smile was pale.

            “Beauty's an overrated thing, Mr. Simmons,” she answered softly. “It doesn’t buy you love, and it doesn’t buy you happiness.  Even when you're lucky enough to be with someone, sometimes you’re still lonely inside, because you know that that someone will never really understand you.”

            His eyes had not left her face for a long time now.  She had almost grown used to it, but it still surprised her when he lent forward slightly, and touched the hair at her cheek in a curiously sophisticated caress.

            “And do you think _I_ understand you, Marie?”

            His voice, once quiet and deferential had somehow changed into something charged - almost passionate. And she knew, with every fibre of her being, that _this_ was the cue.  The moment when the contract would be made.  She couldn’t afford to let it slip past.  Channelling every ounce of strength and purpose she possessed, she allowed herself to gaze up into his eyes without flinching, without once breaking contact.

            “Ah think so…”

            She said it shyly, uncertainly, childlike as she had been when he'd first come to her… She knew it was her innocence, her otherworldliness he found intriguing, and at all costs it was an illusion she could not break.

            She knew she'd won when he smiled.

 -oOo-

            There was no sign of the bodyguards as they made the journey up to his suite, yet she felt sure that somehow, somewhere, they were tailing them, keeping an eye out for them.  This was the part of the game that Rogue always loathed the most - no matter how much she tried to distance herself from the run-up and the subsequent act, she could not hide the disgust and the agitation she truly felt, at least not from herself.  It was no different with Simmons.  He was an urbane and cultured man, and yet there was something about him that made her uneasy and she couldn't place it.

            Most times, when men took her to their rooms, they walked fast, without looking at her, eager to get the preliminaries out of the way.  But Simmons was slow, unhurried, and he looked back at her several times, assessing her with his dark eyes, silent and watchful rather than appreciative.  And he held her hand when most men did not, his grasp firm, urging her on.

            It was nerve-racking, almost unpleasant, but finally, they were there.  His room was darkened; he did not turn the lights on when they entered.  She watched him lock the door with his back to her.  He did not turn when he was done.  To her surprise, he seemed to slump against the door instead, his shoulders sagging pitifully.

            “Mr. Simmons?” she ventured uncertainly.  In all her time doing this kind of job, in all her experience, she'd never encountered behaviour like this.  He made no movement, no reply; his was back still on hers.

            _Is he havin' second thoughts, has he changed his mind?_

            Fearing the worst, she reached out, placed a hand hesitantly on his shoulder.

            “Mr. Simmons… Anton?  Ah… Ah can leave if you want…”

            And half of her wanted him to give her an excuse not to go through with this, not to perpetuate the tainted and wicked creature she already was…

            He made a slight movement with his head, and she saw he was shaking it.

            “No, Marie,” he mumbled to the door, his voice muffled. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

            He turned, very slowly; his face was a thin, sliver of slack, sallow skin, unfolding itself to her in the darkness, and his eyes were black, intent, yet there was still that peculiar, plaintive quality to them…

            She stepped back instinctively.

            “I'm a lonely person too, Marie,” he said very softly.  He reached out, tentative, and stroked her neck.  His touch was strange, somehow unsure. “Perhaps it would be fair to say that, lonely as you believe yourself to be, I am a thousand times lonelier.  My life has not been my own for a very long time.  Do you understand that?”

            His caress was becoming bolder.  She hesitated slightly, because in a way, she understood what he meant; she understood what it was to be living yet dead… And yet there was something in his voice, so soft and so alien, that made her skin crawl.

            “Yes,” she whispered. “Ah think Ah understand.”

            He smiled again - melancholy, tremulous.  His eyes were like glittering, black gimlets, boring into her own.  He stepped forward slightly, pressing her close to the wall, and she felt his body touching hers; to her surprise his frame was more solid than she'd first thought.

            “Do you?” He cocked his head, considering; his eyes flickered. “You intrigue me, Marie.  You seem wise, and yet you seem sad.  One might almost say, I would have found a kindred spirit in you, if we were not so wholly different.”

            Her back hit the wall.  His words echoed darkly about her.  And it hit her.  Something was wrong, something was dreadfully wrong…

            “Mr. Simmons…”

            “Shh.  For a moment, be silent.” She obeyed, not knowing whether it was the right thing to do.  He studied her for what must have amounted to a minute, then said: “Yes - you are very beautiful, and the words you speak are pretty.  But your face is a mask, and your words are lies.  We, each of us, live lies, Marie.  I am no exception.  Did that ever occur to you?”

            This time she did not answer him.  A cold fear had gripped her and she couldn’t move.  His fingers, which had thus far seemed so gentle and insinuating on her neck were now curling about the column of her throat, gripping her in such a way as to be strong and firm, yet not to hurt.  She was stunned to feel the hidden strength in his hand, strength enough to snap her neck like a twig if he so wished.  And yet she couldn’t blow her cover, not just yet, she had to maintain her charade to the last, whatever he thought he knew.

            “I know you,” he told her when she did not reply, and this time there was a gruffness to that low voice she hadn't heard before. “From the moment I saw you, I knew who you were.” He moved his hand slightly, that oddly threatening caress - his lips curled with pure contempt. “So the famous girl with the white streak has done a bad dye job,” he whispered, and this time his tone was unmistakably mocking.

            Despite everything, despite all her training and all her self-control, she was so shocked that she could not help the small, almost insignificant tremor zigzag through her body.  Sensing this, Simmons' eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a smile that was no longer plaintive.  It was cold and callous as an Artic wind.

            “Ah.  So did you think me a fool then, mutant?  Did you think I was like that bumbling idiot, Rifkind, someone who would fall under your tawdry spell and fawn at your feet?” His expression was taut, taut as a wire, a grimace so fiercely controlled that she thought his face would split with it. “No.  Troy Rifkind was a fool - he deserved everything he got.  But I - I am not so credulous as he is to the wiles of a woman, not even one such as you.  The hair is different, certainly, but your face… I never forget faces, and yours is a face a man would not soon forget…”

            He trailed off, and suddenly she knew, she knew more acutely than she'd ever known before… She struggled, using all the techniques Raven had taught her to foil such an attack, but he was strong, so much stronger than she'd first presumed or even imagined… And his body was hemming her into the corner, she could barely move, barely co-ordinate a movement, there was no leverage…

            “I've been waiting a long time for someone like you to show up,” he growled into her ear, his rank breath flooding into her nostrils. “You don't know how long.  You muties destroyed my life, and I've been waiting years for this moment, for them to send someone like you along.”

            She was hyperventilating, trying desperately to breathe against the tightness of his fist…

            “Do you know how it feels, mutie?” he hissed malevolently. “To have your whole life destroyed, ripped out from right under your feet?  Eight years, mutie!  Eight years I've had to live like a ghost, dead inside, waiting, _training_ myself for this moment!” His fist tightened closer still, and she choked, spluttering, but he ignored her, and she saw pain in the cold eyes, the same kind of pain that had chased her for so long… “Your kind murdered my family, mutant,” he muttered bitterly, “My wife and daughter were killed by that murdering freak Magneto in his siege on New York City.  They were innocents, caught in the crossfire - they'd done nothing wrong, wanted no part in the war _he_ instigated against _us_ , but he didn’t care.  He had no sympathy for those that stumbled unwittingly upon his battle.  He didn’t care that they were left in the streets to rot.” His face twisted in bitter anguish. “That moment… The moment I went and identified their bodies in the morgue… when I saw their white, cold faces… That's the moment I swore revenge, mutant.  That's the moment I _knew_ my calling.”

            His features, so poignant in remembered grief, changed abruptly - the contorted rage of lunacy had returned.

            “For them, for all their suffering, for all the pointlessness of their deaths… It's your turn, mutie.  It's your turn to suffer.”

            He was choking her, throttling her and she couldn't think, she couldn't feel… somehow she was flailing with her legs, lifting those heavy, aching limbs, ramming her knee into his groin…

            He groaned in agony, his hand unclasping her throat in a split-second reflex action and suddenly she was on the floor, clawing her way to the dresser, for an ashtray, for a vase, for anything that could serve as a weapon…

            She'd managed twenty inches when he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up into a sitting position; the following blow hit the side of her face with such force that stars leapt in front of her eyes and her vision went blurry and opaque.  She felt blood in her mouth where his fist had struck and she gagged for breath, aware of only one thing spiralling round and down and down and round into the deepest wells of her being… That something had gone terribly wrong…

            That she was dead.

            It must have been seconds later when she came to again, but it felt like hours.  He was half dragging her, half leading her towards the bed; she was still partially on her feet, stumbling as he hauled her across the plush burgundy carpet.  Despite the blow to the head, her mind was clearing quickly; she somehow regained a modicum of balance and resisted his pull, grasping his wrist with a fist, slamming her free hand into his elbow - finally he let go of her.  This was her opening.  Channelling all the strength that still remained to her, her hands still grasping his arm, she tried to flip him over her shoulder and floor him for good.  But he was ready.  He'd been expecting this.  With the deft control of a martial arts expert he countered her move, bringing up his free hand to lock her in a fierce arm-grip, driving painfully against her wrist, until, head throbbing and limbs heavy, she could bear it no longer.  She gave way with a low cry; his arm clasped roughly about her waist, pulling her towards the bed once more.  At all costs she could not allow this to happen.  Her entire head was screaming, protesting at her, but she ignored it. Still she struggled, bringing up her arms and pushing hard against his cheek with both palms; her exertion remained ineffectual.  He simply clasped his other arm about her waist, the unbelievable strength in his arms crushing her so that she could barely breathe.

            She struggled all the more, but the next moment he had thrown her roughly onto the bed; she half rolled onto her back, bracing herself for him, seeing nothing but darkness…

            And then he was upon her seemingly from out of nowhere; she heard, she tasted, she felt his grip on her throat, closing in on her, dragging her down under… the world was dimming about her, and everything, everything was leaking, leaking into this one moment… …

            And then suddenly, cutting razor-like through the blackness she heard a faint, high-pitched whistling sound, a buzzing that she first thought was the careening of her own head until it grew to a thrumming fever pitch that tore through her ears like the grating wail of a klaxon.  And then…

            _Shuck_.

            That same baleful, familiar sound, thick with the unequivocal clarity of death; the next moment Simmons had toppled over her in an ungainly heap, weighing on her with a repulsive heaviness.  She gagged, instinctively shoving him off her and he rolled, limp, lax, into a crumpled mound on the bed beside her.  She was shaking - no, not just shaking but convulsing with agony and shock and horror.  Her teeth were chattering painfully, her vision was swimming in and out of focus.

            The first thing she saw was the red eyes staring down at her from the darkness, calm, watchful as always.

            “Y-y-you k-killed him…” she heard herself say.

            “And dis time I don't care what you say, chere,” returned the eyes, “he deserved it.”

            A hand followed the eyes and touched her softly on the shoulder - but she didn’t need or want his help.  She shrugged him aside lightly and sat up.  Her vision was slowly regulating itself, but she was still shivering when she saw Simmons lying open-eyed beside her, a knife wedged deliberately in the back of his neck.

            “Mystique told us he wasn't to be harmed,” she whispered.

            Remy had gone to the other side of the bed; his eyes flashed at her words as he nudged Simmons' corpse roughly onto its side and pulled out the knife with an ugly squelch.

            “Even Mystique will have to accept my judgement on dis one,” he replied darkly. “Dat guy knew exactly who you were, and if I hadn'ta stepped in he woulda killed you.  Dere was no other choice.”

            He wiped the blade clean, re-sheathed it and then slid the trench coat off his shoulders.  She didn’t reject the offer when he slipped the duster over her trembling shoulders - she needed it to hide her pitiful attempt at seduction from him, if anything - but she didn’t thank him for it either.

            “It ain't gonna make a difference,” she murmured pointedly, clasping the coat about her, letting the spicy scent of him envelope her, feeling his warmth soak into her bare skin. “When they find his body, the shit's still gonna hit the fan.  They're gonna know Ah came up here with him.”

            Remy was barely listening to her; he was already moving about the room with a self-possessed efficiency, examining first the dresser, then the nightstand.  She followed him with her eyes, fighting back the last of her tremors, wondering what he was thinking.  Then, quite inexplicably, he began to turn out the dresser drawers and scatter the contents onto the floor.

            “Remy, what --?”

            “Then we make de crime look like an accident,” he muttered.  He stopped, turned, crossed the room and did the same to the nightstand drawers. “We make dis look like a robbery dat went wrong.” He paused momentarily, staring at the French windows, continuing: “I come in through de window, lookin' for some rich pickings.  But unfortunately for me, Simmons came up early from de party wit' a lady friend.  I disturb them, end up havin' t' kill him.  Then I rob him.” So saying he rifled unapologetically through the corpse's pockets, pulled out his wallet, and removed the cash and the cards, before slipping them casually into his own back pockets.  Rogue stared at him dubiously.

            “And the lady?  How does _she_ fit into this crazy scheme?”

            He grinned cockily at her.

            “Maybe she got scared and ran off.  Maybe she got kidnapped by de murderer.  Or maybe she got Stockholm's Syndrome and ran off wit' him - who knows?” He shrugged. “I didn't say de plan was perfect, chere, but it'll do for now - maybe throw de cops off for a while.” He looked away, suddenly frowning. “Maybe buy us enough time to get de mission finished t'morrow.” Her stare was questioning, but he ignored her, already moving onto Simmons' briefcase and carryall.  Rogue clutched the coat tightly about her, speechless.  Her head had steadied, though it still throbbed painfully where Simmons' fist had connected; she could think of nothing, except that once again he had saved her, once again he had been willing to kill to protect her.

            _Why…?_

            “You were followin' me,” she mumbled half to herself.  He didn't even stop rummaging.

            “Yeah.  Sorry.  I knew you'd get pissed and all, but I got a funny feelin' 'bout dis Simmons guy from de start, and when I get funny feelin's about anyone or anyt'ing, I gotta check it out.”

            “How do Ah know Ah can believe you?” she asked hard, quiet.

            “I guess you don’t,” he answered, unconcerned. “But in dis line o' work, it's my business to find out every minor detail 'bout potential targets and potential threats.  Simmons was no exception.” He stood up straight, tipped the remaining contents of the briefcase unceremoniously onto the floor. “I'm very thorough.”

            “You _knew_ what he was like?” she questioned him in a harsher tone. “And y' didn't even warn any of us?”

            “Figured you knew already,” he grunted flippantly. “B'sides,” he added sarcastically, “y'know I like savin' damsels in distress, and dere was no way I was gonna let dat bastard get his filthy paws on you.”

            _No way, huh?_  She swallowed and looked down at Simmons' wallet still lying haphazard on the bed.  There, just peeking out of the edge of it, was the keycard, the very thing she'd come for. _Ah can still make this worthwhile…_  Eagerly she reached out for it, but before she could touch it --

            “Uh-uh, chere, don't touch it,” his voice sounded warningly.

            “Why?” she queried testily.

            “Because we're leavin' it here.”

            “What the…?  We need it!”

            “Non.” He had finished with the carryall and had turned round to face her. “I already got de access codes.” He stopped, then added meaningfully: “I had a chat wit' his secretary.”

            _The woman in the pink suit…_

            She glared at him incredulously.

            “Simmons' secretary knew the access codes to the Pens?”

            His expression was suddenly sober.

            “You underestimate, chere, what a man may be willin' t' tell a woman he loves.”

            “Loves?” she repeated coldly. “That bastard _loved_ someone?”

            “After a fashion.  He told her de access codes so dey could meet anytime, anywhere in de compound dat was convenient.  He trusted her.  Didn't stop her from tellin' me though, once I'd laid a little of de old mojo on her.” His eyes fell back on hers, glittering watchfully. “Funny, how easy it is to break a person's trust, non?”

            _Yeah…_

            She said nothing, looked down at her hands.

            It was a long moment before he moved again; she still hadn't looked up when he flung her pack on the bed in front of her.

            “I got your stuff for you,” he told her unnecessarily.

            “You sure went to a lot of work,” she murmured, still looking at her hands.

            “I told you,” he replied indifferently. “I'm thorough.”

            It was no good; the word had been pushing at her tongue for ages, and she just had to get it out.

            “Thanks,” she whispered hoarsely.

            He made no reply.

            She opened up her bag, got out her bodysuit.  He averted his eyes while she changed into it, but by that time she didn't care if he had looked.  Perhaps she wanted him to.  When she was ready she turned to find him waiting for her at the French windows; slowly, her legs aching, she joined him.

            “Sure I can't do anyt'ing about dat cut on your face?” he said, his countenance now one of concern.  It was a second before she realised he was referring to the place where Simmons had struck her.  She knew he wanted to touch her and examine the wound but was purposely refraining from doing so.

            “Ah can look after mahself, thanks,” she answered uncharitably - it was easier to keep the distance between them that way. “There are plenty of other gals out there who could've benefited better from your knight-in-shinin'-armour routine.  Or do you really want this mission that badly?” she added as an unplanned but somehow involuntary afterthought.

            His eyes flashed, just once.

            “Heh.  Non.  Sinny's de one who wants dis mission real bad.  In case it escaped your notice, Rachel Summers is de only offspring of Scott Summers and Jean Grey.  Dat fact alone is enough to get Sinny creamin' in his pants.  But dere's only one thing about dis mission dat has de same effect on me.” He looked back at her over his shoulder and actually had the audacity to wink. “So,” he continued casually, “you gonna stay here wit' dis corpse, or come back t' de safe house wit' me?  Only I t'ink we ain't gonna get dis mission done wit'out de other.”

            He pushed the balcony door open and walked out, not even waiting for an answer.

            It was only a couple of seconds before she made up her mind, and followed him out into the snowy, starlit night.

-oOo-


	21. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this short chapter, Rogue and Gambit come to something of a bittersweet understanding...

            They said nothing on the way back, not even when they'd stepped back into that little room where they'd first become lovers.  There was an uneasiness between them, born out of sorrow and mistrust.  And yet, despite everything, he'd still come after her, he'd still done everything in his power to protect her and keep her safe.  There was a part of her, the proud and solitary part, which resented this.  But there was another part, deeper and more profound, that ached with the realisation that she could not simply turn off her feelings for him.  From the moment they'd stepped into one another's lives they had been playing with fire; they had accepted that risk, and she had no reason to resent him for that.  She had hurt him as much as he'd hurt her.

            And she knew she'd hurt him.  She knew that in a way, he'd seen her as his unique possession, and she had broken that belief just as he had broken the belief that deep down he was a good person doing what he did for the right reasons, even if he did it in the wrong way.

            After all, there weren’t many good or innocent people around these days, and she herself had long ago stopped being one of them.

           

            Once back at the safe house she'd run straight into the shower.  Her body felt old and tired under the water - it was as if the past day or so she'd aged a lifetime.  She spent a long time there, running her hands over herself, trying to make out just who and what she really was.

            _We are the faceless and the formless, wanting to become something complete and beautiful and whole, striving to become human…_

            That was what Mystique had said.

            And somehow, for the first time, she saw that statement clearly for what it was - it was a truth that had followed her not simply since the war had started, but ever since she had been born as a mutant; it was her phrase, her motto, it was the meaning of _her_.

            She wondered whether she would ever escape her cocoon, whether she would ever be more than just Rogue.

            It was thirty minutes later when she stepped out of the shower.  It'd taken a while to get all the brown dye out of her hair, but she'd managed it at last.  In the lopsided and mottled bathroom mirror, the butterfly pendant still glittered brighter than anything else in this sad and dreary world, just as it always had done.  She thought of Simmons, of the way he’d looked at it with his strange, oblique glance, from eyes now dead and cold and staring.  He’d known what it meant, somehow.  He’d known what it had meant to her, that it kept her looking and dreaming for something that had probably never even existed.  A better her, a better Rogue.

           

            Remy was sitting on the edge of the mattress, playing solitaire with a new pack of cards - she could smell the aroma of fresh plastic.  She stood and watched him awhile as she towelled her hair dry, the way his fingers absently caressed the edges of the cards as he placed them out in front of him in a somehow meaningful array of pattern and colour.  But whatever he found in them remained obscure to her, and always would.  She had accepted long ago that there were some things that she would never know about him, however long they spent together.

            “Feelin' better?” he asked her at last, not looking up from his game.

            “Ah guess…” she replied waveringly.  She didn’t know how she felt.

            “Hmph.  At least it's better den you bein' mad at me.” He paused, laid down the queen of diamonds. “You better rest up, chere, get some sleep.  We should be leavin' early for de Hound pens tomorrow.  We'll need to be at de top of our game.”

            She made no verbal acknowledgement, merely nodding silently, even though he was too engrossed in his game to see it.  She took a glance around the room, her gaze resting on the battered old armchair in the corner of the room.  A blanket had been laid on it, and a pillow; his trench coat had been slung over the back.  Despite everything that had passed between them, something inside her fell.  She knew he was planning to sleep apart from her as a token of respect, but nevertheless she didn’t want that courtesy.  It wasn't the sex she wanted - it was his warmth that she needed.  Perhaps it was weakness, but she couldn't stand this enforced coldness between them any longer.  Of everything, he was the very last thing she had left, and still she couldn't let him go.

            Her stomach gnawing listlessly, she slowly laid aside the towel and slumped onto the edge of the mattress.  She was tired; she didn't want to argue with him.  She didn’t even have the strength anymore.  Gently she touched her cheek, which ached dully where Simmons had hit her.  Even that felt numb.

            “You okay, chere?”

            He had turned slightly and was looking at her.  She nodded slowly.

            “Ah'm fine.  It's nothin'.”

            He swivelled round fully to face her, and when he reached out she found she didn’t want to turn away.  His fingers touched her cheek lightly as he examined the wound.

            “Should be okay,” he decided after a moment. “Might get a little septic though, if we don’t treat it.” He got up, went over to the dresser, and when he came back he had some cotton wool and a bottle of disinfectant on him.  He sat next to her again, shook some of the pungent-smelling liquid onto the wad of cotton wool, before pausing and looking at her. “Are you okay wit' me doin' dis?”

            She smiled wanly. “Ah'm fine with just about anythin' you can throw at me, sugah.”

            His smile was wan too, but it was there.  Gently he placed his left hand on her shoulder while his right carefully tended the cut.  She thought he took a longer time than was necessary to clean the wound, but she made no complaint, sensing that this was some sort of test for them both, a testing of the boundaries that had been newly erected between them.  She knew instinctively that this was his way of apologising to her. Deep down, she wanted to apologise too.  It took a minute or so for the tenseness to abate somewhat, and she allowed herself to relax.

            “You still wear dat?” he asked her in an undertone while he continued to dab at her cheek.  She gazed at him questioningly, before seeing him looking down at the butterfly pendant hanging at her breast.

            “Sometimes,” she replied softly.  She paused: his eyes were back on the cut, inspecting it. “Ah always have it on me, even if Ah'm not wearing it,” she added, her voice dropping a notch.  His brow furrowed slightly.

            “Why?” he asked after a moment.

            “Ah dunno,” she murmured. “Ah guess… because it was the only thing I had from the life I left behind.”

            _Along with you…_

            His eyes flickered; he dropped his hand and finally his gaze was on hers again.  He stared at her a long moment, and she realised that that short conversation had broken the barriers between them more profoundly than anything else could have done.

            “I see,” he murmured at last.  Then he stood, threw the cotton wool into a nearby wastebasket and put the disinfectant back into the dresser.  When he was done, he went back to the cards, still lying in formation next to the bed, and began to pack them away.  Though the coldness had gone between them, there was still something thick and invisible that she couldn't pinpoint.  A feeling… A _dread_ …

            She stared at him, the way he avoided looking at her, the tautness in his body as he felt her eyes on him, and something viscous and sickly suddenly rose inside her.

            _Sinister doesn't just want Rachel's DNA… He wants Rachel all to himself.  It's what Remy does, isn’t it?  He frees mutants from the concentration camps, brings them to Sinister so he can perform his sick experiments on them… Rachel's a chance he won't be able to pass up.  He doesn't want to broker a deal with Mystique at all.  He's just usin' us t' find the location… usin' me to get the access codes… Once we get to the pens, Ah'll just be in the way. Ah won't be needed anymore.  None of the Brotherhood will._

            She gazed over at Remy changing out of his shirt by the armchair, the sick revelation hitting her with an agonising abruptness.

            _He's ordered Remy t' kill us all…_

            The full weight of the realisation seemed to bear down on her body with a dull, terrible ache, and she slumped onto her back, feeling her body fill with a hollow numbness.  What was it that Mystique had said before she left?  _If you feel at all that he is being duplicitous, kill him._

            Kill him.

            She would have to kill him.

            Because the moment she'd touched Irene, the moment she'd looked into the window of the future, she'd realised what was truly at stake.  It was beyond revenge and hate and anger, it was beyond petty attachments.  If Rachel was indeed their last hope, she was more important than anything else, more important than a selfish need for a cheap and tawdry affair that meant nothing.

            _Why, Remy, why didn't yah just let me walk away, why didn't yah carry on with the mission and leave me behind?  Why did you haveta come back and make things harder?_

            And for the first time she saw the answer.  She saw the answer as clear as day.  It was because he didn’t want to lose her either.  Because he couldn't resist her like she couldn't resist him.  Because after all, despite all his playing, all his posturing, she really did mean something to him and he couldn't let her go.

            It was more than she could bear.

            She stared up the ceiling, that same old ceiling she'd stared at the first moment she'd realised she was falling for him, the night he'd killed Kincaid for her and there had been no turning back for either of them.

            Like there was no turning back even now…

            “Ah'm sorry,” she suddenly began in a hoarse rush, the words racing to get out, “about what Ah said earlier on t'day.  You were right.  Every time we came here, it wasn't about _us_.  It wasn't about the world or our lives outside.  It was just about feeling.  About comfort.  About trying to be happy once or twice a year.”

            She paused and he stood beside the armchair, his back to her, staring at the blanket in his hands.

            “What we do with our lives is one thing, and what we feel is another,” she continued slowly. “Feelin' doesn’t have any place in what we do - it can't, because if we let it get in the way, we fold.  Ah shouldn't have resented you for that, Remy.  It made me a hypocrite.  There are no good men in this world anymore.  And Ah… Ah ain't a good person.  Ah'm wicked.  Ah had no right t' be mad at you.”

            She stared at the ceiling, expecting no answer; but he turned and looked at her then, his eyes searching her face, finding her gaze with a solemn intensity she’d never seen in them before.

            “You ain't _wicked_ , chere,” he returned softly. “You just tryin' t'do de best wit' de hand dis life has dealt you.” He paused and looked away - she didn’t think she'd ever seen such a softness in his eyes before. “I'd never think you were wicked, chere.  Back when we were wit' Xavier's brood, there were a lotta self-righteous people there, people who were selfless and noble and all de t'ings I wasn't.  _Good_ people, chere.  People I'd never had de good fortune t' grow up wit'.” He pulled the kind of wry, self-deprecating look she knew so well. “But… out of all of them… I always thought you were de best of de lot.  Good, an' pure, an' untouched… Guess dat's why I liked you so much.  And sometimes, I just wish I had dat old Rogue back.” A small, soft smile had touched his face as he said these words; but then the smile faded, and there was sudden realisation on his face. “But it wasn't Mystique dat took her away, was it?” he continued slowly, reflectively, his eyes dull. “It was me.  I did it.  B'cause I destroy every good thing I touch.” He paused, looked down into his hands, murmured: “I spoiled de most beautiful, pure and innocent thing I ever saw.  And now… however hard I try, I can't get her back.”

            It was as if she'd been waiting her whole life to hear those words.  Something inside her broke and all of a sudden she could feel her heart again, not just with the dull ache that had occupied it all these years, but with a white-hot pinprick that seared through her chest and her throat and stung the back of her eyelids.  Nothing he could have said or done to her could have been more visceral, more intimate.  Suddenly she wanted to weep, weep for the past they'd both left behind; but she couldn't bear to show him just how much she mourned her lost innocence - she could never show him such weakness.  Wordlessly she rolled onto her side and buried her head into the pillow, clutching it tight, pushing down the stone in throat, the one that had weighed down her heart for so long.  She wouldn't cry, not for him and never for her…

            Nevertheless a dry sob shuddered through her, one that she couldn’t suppress.  There was a long silence and presently she felt the weight of his body against the mattress, his hand touching her bare arm, soaking into her skin, her bones, her heart…

            Only three centimetres and one night between them, a gap she couldn’t bridge…

            But he was there, and she felt the warmth of him as he inched himself close to her hunched and trembling figure, the warmth of his breath as he nestled his face into her hair, and she knew he was trying to console her, that he knew how much his words had both injured and inflamed her.

            “Rogue?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.  She swallowed her tears back.  She didn’t want this anymore.  She wanted to be free, she wanted to be the way she used to be, naive and innocent and unspoiled.  Such irony she wanted to laugh in the face of her tears.  Her throat burnt but she would not cry.  She refused to.  Instead she swivelled onto her back and found his eyes in the half-darkness, the patience of his gaze, the way he’d waited for her and would continue to wait because two more minutes, two more hours no longer made any difference…

            “Rogue’s gone,” she whispered to him. “You shouldn’t wait for her anymore.”

            He reached out, smoothing a rough hand against her cheek, not waiting for any explanations, needing none, because what he’d always wanted was right there before him, he’d take her however she was, however broken, however tainted.  She closed her eyes and felt those worn hands caress her face, hands that had maimed, that had killed, that had deceived and lied and betrayed so many, yet telling her it was all right, that the two of them…they were the same.

            The same.

            “You’re wrong,” he whispered, his fingers tangling into her tousled hair, leaning forward so close his nose touched hers and his lips teased her own. “The Rogue I’ve always wanted, the Rogue I’ve always waited for… she’s right here…”  He kissed her nose, slow, soft, then the bow of her lips, said: “And I’m gonna keep on waitin’ for her ‘till all dis is over…”

            His mouth slid over hers, warm and liquid, and she closed her eyes, kissing him back slowly as if she’d never kissed a man before, her arms reaching for him, holding him close.  It didn’t matter now, all the lies, all the subterfuge.  There would never be anything more between them than these stolen kisses, these stolen nights when everything would cease to exist except them.  Tomorrow they’d return to the real world, to pain and death and suffering.  Tomorrow, one of them would have to die by the other's hand.

            But until then she’d savour this one night, this one moment.  She would believe that they were lovers, that they had never stopped; nor ever would again.


	22. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambit flashbacks to his first meeting with Rogue at the Xavier Institute, and the year between that and the final fall of the X-Men.

            The first glimpse he'd had of her was of her mile long legs and shapely ass.

            He'd been having his orientation with Storm, and there she'd been in the Rec Room with Logan, leaning over a pool table with her lycra-clad butt stuck in the air.  If he'd had to pick a moment when he'd become smitten with her, that would've been the one.

            “I sure hope all de views in dis place are as good as dis one,” he'd remarked humorously, causing the girl with the butt to miss her shot.  Storm had merely raised an eyebrow at him in that calm, collected way he remembered so well and said: “Logan, Rogue, I'd like to introduce you to our newest member of the team - Gambit.  Gambit, this is Wolverine; and the 'good view' just happens to be Rogue, whom I'm sure would appreciate a little more respect from you in the future.” She'd grinned - Storm's grins had always been a rare but very welcome gesture. “These two are what Xavier calls his wild cards.”

            “Wild cards, huh?” He'd leant against the doorframe and crossed his arms cockily. “I oughta fit in just fine den.”

            “Hmph - we'll see 'bout that,” Logan had growled sceptically through the cigar in his mouth; he was already looking at Remy as if he was a very bad disease.

            “Logan --” Storm had begun warningly, with a _please don't be rude to our guest_ look, but the angel with the cute butt had thankfully interrupted her before she could begin her lecture.

            “Dontcha listen to old bushel britches here, sugah,” she'd assured him in the sweetest Southern drawl he'd ever heard. “He may sound mean, but his bark's worse than his bite.”

            She'd been standing by the pool table, leaning on the cue whilst running her eyes over him appraisingly.  Even from her great-shaped ass he couldn't have guessed how beautiful she really was when he saw her face to face.  The gorgeous body, the kissable lips, the slightly upturned nose, the tousled curls of cinnamon-coloured hair shot through with milky streaks of white…  But most of all the eyes, those unbelievably deep green eyes, eyes with more soul than he'd ever seen in any other woman.  She was beautiful.

            She took his breath away.

            He’d met a lot of girls, but none of them had ever taken his breath away first time round, not even Belle.

            “Hmm,” he'd sounded once they'd both glanced over one another appreciatively. “Pretty accent you got dere, chere.  Lemme guess - Mississippi?”

            She'd smiled.  She had a great smile. “Ah'm a Caldecott gal, born and bred.  And Ah don't even need t' guess with _that_ accent - Cajun, right?”

            He'd pushed away from the door, his grin growing wider. “Hmm, smart as well as sexy.  Now all I need t' find out is why exactly dey call you Rogue.  Maybe I could take you out for a drink t'night and you could help me find out.”

            She'd looked away, blushing; he'd found that unexpected, he'd found that cute.  But before he could have coaxed an answer from her, Logan had given a hostile cough.  He and Rogue obviously weren't the only ones to catch the sudden 'good' vibes between them.

            “Watch out, Gumbo,” the short, hairy man had growled at him menacingly. “The Rogue here is _way_ outta your league.  Keep your hands to yerself and I might just letcha keep 'em.”

            _Ah, so de wolf-man has a thing about her too…_

            “I think the li'l lady is grown up enough to make her own decisions, homme,” he'd replied coldly, only for Storm to step in.

            “Gambit, Logan - this is hardly the time for us to pick fights.  We are all friends here - more than that, we are family.  You will _both_ learn that despite all our petty differences, we must learn to put them aside and work as a team, otherwise we are nothing.” She'd looked over at Remy sternly. “If you aren't prepared to do so, then perhaps you may want to reconsider your place on the team, Gambit.”

            He'd glared at the one called Wolverine before turning to Storm with a genuine smile on his face.

            “Don’t worry, Stormy.  I'm an expert at compartmentalisation.  Besides, when I get along wit' someone, I tend to get along wit' them very well indeed.” He'd thrown Rogue a meaningful look, and she'd returned it, her cheeks still flushed.  For all the sass, she really was just a soft-centred Southern girl at heart.

            _She'll be mine before de week is out_ , he'd thought to himself as he'd finally followed Storm out.

 -oOo-

            A week later and she'd still been playing hard to get.  He hadn't minded so much; he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and the longer a girl held out the more exciting he found the actual conquest.  Still, she'd taken pains to avoid him - whenever he'd finally catch up with her, she'd be hanging round with someone else, and more often than not that someone else would be Logan, whom Remy had now come to see as his rival in just about everything.  So far as he could tell, he was the only one who'd managed to outwit the hairy wolf-man in a Danger Room battle, which had won the grudging respect of the other X-Men - of course, he'd only done it to get her attention.  Not that she'd ever really noticed.

           

            It was a week to the day that he'd met her when he finally cornered her.  She'd been sitting in the lounge reading a book when he'd stolen in after her with his usual swagger.

            “Mind if I join you?” he'd asked.  She'd started, turned, and seen him there.  The same blush had crept into her cheeks, but she'd feigned insouciance and replied: “No, go ahead.”

            She'd gone back to her reading and he'd gone to the bookcase, picked up any old book, and slumped into the armchair opposite her, opening up the book with a flourish.  He hadn't read a single word of it.  She was the one he'd been busy perusing.

            She had been reclining on the sofa, a look of intense concentration on her face as she read voraciously; one hand was in her hair, a finger absently twirling round a milky white lock; she was wearing a formless green jumper and black leggings.  He didn't know why she always insisted on wearing such shapeless clothing.  She had such a great body he figured a woman like her would be showing it off a lot more than she did.

            He had cocked his head slightly so that he could see the front cover of the book she was reading so intently.  It was pink and gaudy - a Harlequin romance.  Again, he had been slightly puzzled.  A beautiful woman like her ought to have been having enough action on the weekends to quell any need to read such bawdy tripe.

            That did it.  This girl literally screamed sexual frustration, and if he was going to be the guy to satisfy her, then so much the better.

            He'd placed the book aside impatiently and announced: “Okay, chere, I admit it.  You got me.  I'm clueless.  Confused.  I jes’ don’t get it.”

            She'd looked up from her book, mildly startled at his outburst.

            “What d'you mean?  What's wrong?”

            “You.  You sittin' dere, lookin' as fine as you do, readin' dat trash when a femme like you should be gettin' de real t'ing.  Chere, I know you ladies like t' play hard t' get sometimes, but come on now.  Dere ain't no cause t' be shy.  I like you.  Okay, so maybe you're not de kind of femme who goes straight in for de kill.  I can handle dat.  How about I take you out for dinner t'night?  How does dat sound?” With every suggestion he made, her face had displayed an ever deeper sense of confusion and he'd finally finished in complete desperation: “Okay, so now you really got me.  How _do_ you pin dis butterfly down?”

            She'd stared at him for what seemed a long moment; then suddenly she'd laughed, a sad, self-deprecating laugh that confounded him even further.

            “Yah can't pin this butterfly down, sugah,” she'd replied at last - the mischievous glimmer in her eye had been forced. “This one's got toxic wings.  Touch her and you'll get burnt.” The perplexed look on his face had said it all, and suddenly she’d frowned. “Yah really don't know, do you?” she murmured. “Didn't anyone tell yah?”

            “Tell me what?” he asked, seeing that emotion in her eyes, the soulful green eyes that looked as if they didn't belong in her face, that looked too old, too wise, too _still_ …

            “Mah power, Gambit,” she'd said in a quiet voice. “Ah can't touch.  Not without drainin' peoples' life-forces, their powers and their mem'ries anyhow.  Not without even killin' them, sometimes.” She looked away suddenly, her once flushed cheeks deathly pale. “Y'see, even if Ah wanted t' get close to you, Ah couldn't.  Ah could end up hurtin' you, or worse.  Ah'm sorry, Gambit.  Ah thought someone would've told you.  But thanks for the offer anyhow.  It was… nice of yah.”

            She'd got up, placed the book on the coffee table, and walked out.

            In all his life no rebuff ever stung him so much as that one.

 -oOo-

            The thing he'd always liked about Storm was, even though she tended to wear that disapproving little frown on her lips whenever he spoke to her about his problems, she always listened to him without ever judging him or telling him he was fighting a lost cause.  She would always encourage him in any of his endeavours; or, if she happened to object to them, would appeal mildly to his nobler side.

            Because, contrary to popular belief, he _did_ possess a noble side.

            When he'd told her about Rogue, she'd listened silently to every word he'd said, and never broken in once.  It was this equanimity and fairness of mind that he'd always admired most in Ororo, and it was this admiration that meant that it had never once crossed his mind during their friendship that he should see her as a potential conquest.  There had always been something about Storm that had been untouchable in an emotional if not physical sense - a dignity and a majesty of presence that had set her apart from any other woman he'd known or was likely to meet.  She had, Forge had always liked to joke, the 'forbearance of mountains'.

            Nevertheless, he’d realised over time that her patience with him over Rogue was quite uncalled for since the whole thing had been a hopeless case - even though he had never been willing to accept it at the time.

            “Remy,” she'd said calmly one afternoon in her garden - she'd been floating around the foliage, watering her garden in a flowing white gown that had given her the ephemeral quality of a radiant spectre. “Whilst I appreciate your feelings on this subject, I do believe any overt propositions on your part are quite useless - perhaps even dangerous.”

            “Dangerous?” he'd contested hotly, following her past the geraniums and onto the row of unusual black grasses. “How on earth could it be _dangerous_?  I just wanna take de girl out, okay?  Get t' know her better.  How de hell dat could qualify as dangerous is beyond me.”

            “Remy,” she'd begun in that voice, the voice she always used when he was beginning to stretch her patience, the tone one would use when speaking to a very small child, “You and I both know that your seductions can be very dangerous things.”

            “Quoi?  Stormy, contrary to what you may be thinkin', I'm all for female emancipation.  Burn de bra and all dat.  I don't mess wit' woman's lives, dat ain't my style.  It's just fun, dat's all. _Mutual_ fun.  All those women, they know de score.  It ain't like I'm pullin' de wool over their eyes or anythin'.  Besides,” he added quickly when he saw her beginning to bristle, “I'm not talkin' about seducin' Rogue.  Even if I wanted to, de chances of dat are a big, fat zilch, right?  I just wanna take her out, get to know her better, make her feel special.  But every time I wanna ask her, she runs away from me.  It's drivin' me crazy.”

            She had said nothing for a moment.  Instead she waved a hand in a careless gesture, chasing away the tiny rain clouds that up till that moment had been watering her garden.  In a second the clouds had evaporated, leaving nothing but the crisp tang of moisture on the air.

            “Have you ever considered,” she'd begun thoughtfully, “looking at things from _her_ perspective?  What it must be like to be so young and so full of life and passion, yet to have to remain distanced from everyone and everything around you?  Not simply physically, but emotionally too?” She'd turned to him, her face filled with that tranquil stillness that instilled respect with so little effort. “Rogue is confused, Remy.  She is both a child and a woman.  Do you see the way she reads those books, do you see the daydreams behind her eyes?  There is only one thing she yearns for, and one thing she can't have.  Taunt her and tantalise her with it, Remy, and I believe you'll be doing her more harm than good.”

            She'd walked on down to her large collection of roses; a butterfly had been sitting on the nearest one, a large, sweet-smelling blossom of blood red petals, only to be chased away by the returning rain clouds.

            “'Ro --” he'd begun, but she'd ignored him.

            “Remy, listen to me.  By all means, take her out, talk to her, be friends with her.  But don't tempt her with notions of romance.  Don't make the false promises I've seen you make to others.  She's naïve, she won't be able to see through them.”

            “Rogue?” he'd scoffed. “Naïve?  Dat girl's got more sass on her den a --”

            “Naturally.  She's had a hard life - perhaps harder than most of us.  But in matters of the heart she is as a child.  Perhaps she _wants_ to hear you make promises.  It doesn’t matter - whatever happens, Remy, you will never be able to keep them.”

  -oOo-

            It was only later, when he'd finally taken her out on that first date, that he'd realised what a bizarre situation he'd set himself up for.  He had no idea why he was so interested in a woman he couldn't touch - perhaps it was the fact that he couldn't have her that made him want her all the more.

            It was a twisted logic, and yet he could not have denied that he found the thrill of chasing the indomitable and insurmountable an irresistible prospect.

            They'd sat in _Harry's Hideaway_ with a beer each between them and a clumsy silence, nervous as two inexperienced high school kids.  It wasn't the kind of date he'd been used to, where the woman flirted and giggled and batted her eyelids from the moment he flashed a smile her way.  She'd sat there awkwardly coiling a loose lock of hair round a forefinger, those beautiful eyes darting every which way but never on him.  And yet he had sensed from the very first moment the passion inside this woman called Rogue.  Back then, it had confused him that she'd never been able to show it to him.  In later years, it had saddened him when he'd seen that thirst for life go.

            “So,” he'd begun humorously, once he'd given up on her ever speaking first. “Let's get all de pleasantries out of de way, shall we?  Only I t'ink we're never gonna get anywhere otherwise.  Perhaps I should introduce myself first.  The name's Remy LeBeau, but most people these days seem to call me Gambit, although I have no idea why… Maybe it's because I'm an expert at gamblin', although dis gamble don't seem t' be payin' off, since we've already spent five minutes in each others company without sayin' a single word.  But, chere, dat's just fine, because t' tell you de truth,” and he'd lowered his voice confidentially and continued, “I don't like blind dates either.”

            It'd worked.  Somehow his idiotic monologue had broken the ice and she'd actually laughed.  He liked her laugh.  Husky and rich and deep, and so completely uncontrived it was downright sexy.

            “Ah'm sorry,” she'd replied a little earnestly. “Ah'm not normally like this… not normally this…this nervous round men, it's just…” her eyes met his with a sincerity he found quite disarming, “the way you stare at me, Gambit… It's kinda unnerving.”

            He'd smiled. “Call me Remy, chere.  And dat's okay.  A lotta people find my eyes weird at first.”

            “No, it ain't that,” she'd answered self-consciously. “It's just the way you look at me.  Like…”

            “Like I find you unbelievably sexy?” he'd finished for her, and she'd blushed that blush again, her eyes darting away once more, a shy, plaintive smile tugging at her lips; a smile that made something in his chest tighten pleasurably.

            “Well, I do,” he continued, the warmth in his chest spreading to his lips and into a broad smile. “What's de point in hidin' it?” He'd pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and given her a questioning glance.  When she shook her head he'd lit one and settled back in his seat, appraising her. “So, I just gave you an introduction of m'self.  It ain't a life story by any means, but it'll have t' do, because you ain't gon' get much more outta dis Cajun.  So how about some quid pro quo, huh?  Why don't you tell me a bit 'bout your beautiful self?”

            Again she'd looked away, the faintness of a blush not quite disguising the sudden tightness around her lips.

            “Mah name's Rogue,” was all she'd said.

            “Real name?”

            “Ah don't have one.”

            He'd cocked an eyebrow at her.

            “Everyone has a name.”

            “Not me.  Not since Ah was thirteen.  Doesn't feel right, y'know?  Not anymore.”

            “How come?”

            She'd allowed herself to look at him then, and there had been that look in those pellucid green eyes, the kind of look you didn’t see in young women anymore…

            “Ah first used mah powers when Ah was thirteen,” she'd explained quietly. “And when Ah did… Ah changed.  Haven't felt like mah old self since then.  Ah'm just Rogue.” She'd shrugged, as if that explained everything, when really, of course, it had explained almost nothing at all. “That's all.”

            There had been about a minute of silence after that; he'd taken a swig of his beer, and she'd stared at the table, embarrassed.  Then he'd said: “Do you feel them then?”

            She'd looked up. “Who?”

            He tapped his temple.

            “De people inside your head?”

            She'd swallowed, nodded. “Ah feel them.  Ah hear them.  Every day.  Every night.”

            There was no self-pity in her features, no sadness, but he had sensed shame and guilt.  Familiar.  He had felt sorry for her, wanted to reach out to her.  Maybe that was why he asked what he did, though even at the time he knew it was foolish.

            “Who was de first person you absorbed?  When you were thirteen?”

            In the fortnight they'd known one another, in all the idle, meaningless words they'd exchanged, for some reason she'd chosen to confide this thing in him - something that he instinctively knew she'd only told to very few people, and none of them after only a few days of general acquaintance.  Even now, he'd never been able to understand why she'd felt it necessary to do what she did.  She'd gazed over at an amorous couple embracing in a shadowy corner and said almost in a rush: “He was a boy Ah knew at school.  Cody Robbins.  Ah never asked for him t' like me.  Nobody liked me.  There was no reason he should have liked me at all.  But he did.” There was a faintly accusing look in her eyes as she'd continued; “One day, we were playin' down by the river, and suddenly, he was kissin' me…  It was so crazy… And Ah was so angry at him for doin' that, but what was even crazier was that suddenly… Ah was kissin' him back too.  And Ah didn't even know, up until that moment, that Ah'd ever wanted t' kiss _anyone_ let alone him… But Ah did… And Ah _was_ … And then… _it_ happened.”

            She stopped on a breath, and it had been as if something had suddenly gone out of her, as if the confession had sapped it from her, leaving her dry.

            Even now, if he had been asked how he'd felt upon hearing her story, he wouldn't have been able to tell you.

            “I'm sorry,” he'd muttered.  It had been crass, inadequate; he hadn't even known what it was he was sorry about.  It was the only phrase that had come close enough, yet it was so far from the mark it could never have done his true feelings justice.

            “The way you look at me,” she'd continued softly, still not looking into his eyes, “don't get me wrong, it's not that Ah don't like it.  You don't look at me the way other men do.  You make me feel…good about myself, Remy.  But sometimes… it just reminds me of the way Cody kissed me that day at the river, and sometimes Ah think…” She'd looked at him then, holding his gaze with those breathtaking, beautiful green eyes, “sometimes Ah think that if Ah ever let you get close t' me like Ah let Cody get close t' me, Ah'd kill you.  Just like Ah killed Cody.”

  -oOo-

            Perhaps it was a twisted form of self-torture that always made him come back to her.  Because being attracted to her was like being attracted to the Siren; it was like falling in love with something beautiful and yet perversely ugly, a dream of the sweetest kind that thwarted you when you woke up.

            Later they would spend more time together as comrades and teammates, and consequently they got to know one another a little better.  He would flirt casually with her, and to his pleasure, she would always flirt back.  Their banter was bold and suggestive and never boring.  He enjoyed her company, but in equal terms he found it frustrating.  Because despite all the banter, despite all the flirting, they couldn’t deny that underneath it all something intensely sexual existed between them, something that could never be consummated in any way.

            She was a heartbreaker, in every sense of the word; funny and kind one moment; hot-tempered and argumentative the next; then, invariably, whimsical and quixotic.  She possessed a natural sex appeal that he found quite confounding in one so inexperienced and hung up about her body - every time he'd tried to touch her, even a simple pat on the arm, she'd freeze and sometimes snap at him, even though every moment he laid his eyes on her she seemed to subtly invite him with her body, to lead him to do and say stupid and dangerous things.

            And the bolder and more reckless he got, the more she pushed him away.

            It was a game of cat and mouse that frustrated him more than any pursuit of any woman had done so before, all the more so because he had never had a hope in hell of attaining her.

            So why had he never given up?

            Because every movement she made was insinuation to him, it was the stuff of dreams, of fantasies, it fuelled his desires, it inspired him.  The way she sashayed into a room, the way she drew a breath, the way she crossed her legs, the way she pursed her lips when she was mad at him.   She was, in every way, his muse.  The muse of a thief, a liar and a scoundrel, but a muse nonetheless.

           

            He remembered - it must have been a day in summer, since the weather had been unusually hot and bright.  He had wandered down into Westchester village with the aimlessness of one who no longer knows where he is going.  It was not the first time since arriving at Xavier's mansion that he'd questioned his motives in coming to this place, in becoming part of such a close-knit family, one that he felt he had no real connection with.  He still wasn't able to work out whether he really bought into Xavier's claptrap, or whether he didn't but he wanted to, or whether he did but was in self-denial.

            When he had first arrived, he hadn't believed in any of it.  As far as he had been concerned, it had all been the worst kind of bullshit - the kind that puts blinders over peoples' eyes, that makes them see only what they want to see, that makes them free to dream but afraid to live.  But over the months, having lived under the same roof as them, having listened to all that bullshit day in, day out, having got close to Storm, and having met _her_ … He was beginning to question himself.

            He hated questioning himself, he hated rocking the foundation he'd built and deviating from his chosen path into moral shades of grey, but he realised now, very clearly, that all he was and all he had been _were_ shades of grey, nothing more.  He wasn't good, that was for sure - he'd never pretended to be good - but he wasn't _wicked_ either.

            Every time he looked into Xavier's eyes, he had the brief, unnerving impression that he _did_ , indeed, have a soul that was worth saving.

            It was the kind of impression people like him always avoided and dreaded.

           

            That sultry summer afternoon, he'd suddenly found himself in a jewellery shop, standing amongst all the little temptations that had plagued him since childhood.  He had decided, quite suddenly and without any rational flow of thought, that he was going to rob that store.  It wasn't that he had any pressing need to do so, or any real ulterior motive other than a paradoxical emotional need to prove that he was _not_ a good person, and therefore, was incapable of a betrayal of any kind.  He had no ties and no bonds to break - he had no loved ones to upset or disappoint.

            And it was just as he had made that decision that it had caught his eye.

            The butterfly pendant inside the glass cabinet, lying on a bed of plush red velvet, staring right at him from across the shop-front like it had been waiting there all his life.

            He'd walked right up to it.  White gold, the wings adorned with deep green and blue enamel.  He didn’t know why it made him think of her, but as soon as he had seen it, he knew she’d had to have it.  He'd called to the jeweller, who'd scurried up beside him, a little wary of this mutant stranger.

            “Can I help -?”

            “Dis necklace.  How much is it?”

            “Three hundred and fifty dollars, sir.”

            He'd stared at the tiny butterfly and made up his mind.

            “I'll take it.”

            “Now?”

            “Do I look like I'm jokin'?  Take it out and box it up.”

            Looking rather harassed, the jeweller had done so.

            “And how will sir be paying?” he'd asked rather belligerently whilst boxing the necklace up.

            “Cash.”

            As he counted out those crisp, clean dollar bills the irony had not been lost on him.

            All that dirty money paying for the only honest thing he'd ever buy.

  -oOo-

            When he'd got back to the mansion, there had been a picnic going on down by the lake.  She, of course, was nowhere to be seen. It had always been the kind of weather that made her off-colour - her usual attire of long-sleeved sweaters and jeans would become a virtual prison, and as for wearing gloves… She was always grumpy in summer, and he had known it was best to steer clear of her, but that day he wasn't going to be denied, whatever she threw at him.

            He'd found her sitting in the shade, under an ancient cedar tree, reading another worn romance while the others splashed in the lake in their skimpy bathing costumes.  Even though she'd seemed engrossed in the book, he'd noticed that her eyes weren't moving across the page, and there was a cantankerous, doleful expression on her face.  The downturn of those lips said it all.  She wanted to be down with the others enjoying herself; she wanted to have some fun without being afraid she would hurt someone with a single touch.  Nevertheless, he was surprised to see that she'd made the effort to come out in nothing more than a lime green string vest and denim hot pants - he'd never seen her display that much flesh, and to have said it was titillating didn't do enough justice.

            He'd stolen up beside her and leaned against the tree trunk, perusing her from behind his shades.

            “Lookin' good, chere,” he'd greeted her, unable to help himself.

            She'd started and looked up to find him there, looking down at her with an appreciative smile.  She'd never been able to work out how he always managed to sneak up on her, and it was a secret he hoped she'd never find out, because he found the way she blushed when he did decidedly appealing.

            “Yah still followin' me round, swamp rat?” she'd rebuked him, trying not to look too approving of his choice of clothing.  All he'd ever needed was a Tee and jeans to get her heart racing and he knew it.

            “I can’t help it, chere,” he'd grinned, removing his shades and fixing them to the neckline of his shirt. “You're too beautiful.  You're like de flame and I'm like de moth - I jes' can't leave you alone.”

            “You'd better be careful then, Cajun,” she'd told him wryly. “Flames can get moths' wings burnt.”

            He'd knelt down beside her, teased a white lock of hair between his fingers and grinned at her.  He'd been close enough to feel the body heat rising from her white skin, and it had been painful to resist the urge to put his hands on her, his lips on her, to taste her flesh…

            “Not dis flame.  She can't touch me.”

            “So why are you botherin' t' hang around a gal you can't touch?”

            “Maybe de fact dat I can't touch you is what I like about you,” he'd replied, cocking his head sideways and holding her gaze intently, making her breath catch in her throat, making her skin flush despite the shade…

            “Oh, Ah get it,” she'd parried back sarcastically, “Ah'm just the unattainable goddess on a pedestal, aren't Ah?  The one you get to fantasise about when you haven't got a real woman to hold at night, right?”

            “Dat's right,” he'd grinned irreverently. “But dat don't mean dat I don't fantasise about you even when I have a 'real' woman to hold at night.” His smile had broadened as her blush had deepened. “And dat don't mean dat if you suddenly became attainable, I wouldn't forsake all 'real' women in de blink of an eye for you.”

            Despite the way her cheeks were burning up, she'd managed a playful scowl and nudged her hair out of his grasp.  Even though he knew she enjoyed all their sexy banter, there _were_ times he knew he got too close for comfort.

            “You and Ah both know that ain't possible,” she'd murmured, standing and dodging out of his way when he'd stood too.

            “I'm willin' t' take de risk, chere,” he'd purred back. “Are you?” She'd stared back at him, both exasperated and amused.  She could see in his eyes that he really was serious.  Because there _were_ some nights when he thought that he'd really be willing to sacrifice all his thoughts, all his secrets, all his inner machinations - even oblivion - for a kiss from those soft, sweet lips…

            “Go back and play, swamp rat,” she'd ordered him peremptorily. “Why dontcha go hit on Betsy or someone?”

            “Are you kiddin'?  To Betsy I'm classed somewhere b'tween amoeba and worm fodder on de food chain.  I'm not even an anomalous blip on her radar.”

            She'd started walking back towards the mansion, but he'd still insisted on following her.

            “Then how about Storm?”

            “Taken.”

            “Jubilee?”

            “I ain't into schoolgirls.”

            She hadn't been able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

            “Oh, so you're some sorta masochist who enjoys havin' your memories ripped outta you by a soul-eatin' vampire?” she'd snapped.  He'd stopped, and she'd continued walking, but a few seconds later he was right behind her again.

            “Wait, Rogue…” He'd walked in front of her, cutting her off, and she'd glared at him.

            “ _What_?”

            She really _had_ been pissed…

            “I wanna give you dis.”

            He opened his hand.  She stared.  And stared.

            “Did you steal it?” she asked at last.  If he was any other man he would have been offended, but him being him, he couldn’t have blamed her for thinking so.

            “Non,” he'd replied honestly. “Just saw it and I guess I wanted you to have it…  Thought it might look good on you…”

            She'd continued to stare at it.  For the first time he had felt genuinely embarrassed in her presence.

            “Just take it okay,” he'd insisted, holding it out to her. “I don't mean anyt'ing by it, I swear.  S’just a gift.  Okay?”

            There had been an odd look on her face.

            “Okay,” she'd said.

            She'd opened a palm - small and ungloved, lily white.  How much would it have been to ask that he cup his own hand over that palm, hold it tight, feel her fingers etch their pattern into his heart as he pressed the necklace into her hand, as he pressed the butterfly into her possession?

            Always too much.

            Instead he'd dropped that sliver of white gold, watched it trickle like water into her hand; watched the butterfly nestle safe inside her palm, with all the quiet certainty of having found its home at last.

  -oOo-

            It had been later in the summer; he hadn't seen much of her. She'd been put on various missions he hadn't had any part in, but on the other hand, when he had seen her she'd been much more receptive to his flirtation.  It had given him a satisfaction of a different kind, to know that he was proving Storm wrong.

            That particular day he had been sitting in the lounge, slouching on the sofa and idly flipping channels, only to finally halt on the news.  He'd barely listened to it.  The past few days a unique kind of dread had fallen over him, one he couldn't pinpoint the source of.  It hadn't just been the anti-mutant riots right outside their front door, or the Sentinels being rebuilt.  Something had felt terribly, undeniably wrong…

            He'd frowned and stared into space.

            _Maybe I should start makin' a move now.  It don’t matter what de X-Men t'ink - it's not like I need Storm's approval, and my chances wit' Rogue… let's face it, they're zero.  Besides, things don’t feel right anymore, I've been wasting too much time sittin' round listenin' to Xavier's crap…_

            Because the act had begun to grate on him.  The rules, the principles, the codes of honour, the heart and _soul_ of that fucking place and everyone in it had been bleeding into him and he wouldn’t have given a shit about it in reality, but somehow he had begun to forget who and what he really was, and it had felt good to believe he was someone who bought into this bullshit, someone who was honest and clean and blind, but good.

            He'd grimaced and punched the remote, only to find himself on Fox News.

            _“…Sentinels have been government-approved… Before his death at the hand of a mutant terrorist outfit named the Brotherhood, Senator Robert Kelly stated that… Trask has been granted permission to put his Sentinel Mark 2 project underway… mass-production… Professor Charles Xavier reiterated his stance on what he terms 'racial harmony'… The X-Men… outlaw band of mutants… sparked anti-mutant demonstrations outside the Xavier mansion yesterday… Military on high alert…”_

            “Hi.”

            He'd looked up to find her standing there beside him, dressed in skinny jeans and a tight red sweater.  The butterfly pendant had been hanging about her neck, glinting in the sunlight that was streaming in from the windows.  He'd smiled slightly when he saw it.

            “Hey, chere.”

            She'd sat down next to him, closer than usual, so that their arms touched.  He wasn't used to this - it surprised him.  He'd turned to look at her and seen the small frown on her face as she'd stared at the TV screen.

            “You're watchin' this bullshit?” she'd exclaimed disapprovingly, snatching the remote out of his hand and switching the TV off with disdain. “Ah just can't stand the news these days, it's so depressin'.”

            She'd been in less of a bad mood than a despairing one, he could tell from the look in her eyes.

            “How did de mission go?” he'd asked.

            “Not good.  We managed to infiltrate Trask's Manhattan factory, and it looks like the Mark 2 program has been underway for _months_ , not just days… Recon is one thing, Remy, but Ah'd have been much happier blowin' the place t' smithereens…”

            She'd sighed plaintively, and then quite suddenly, in an involuntary, childlike gesture, she'd turned, put her arms through his and buried her face into the sleeve of his shirt.  He'd never seen her looking so lost.  It was then that he'd realised that what she'd seen at the factory had disturbed her more than anything else she'd seen before.  He'd lowered his head slightly, pressing his forehead comfortingly into her hair.  She'd smelt of shampoo and shower gel, vanilla and orange blossom.  It was a scent he'd never forget.

            “How about I take you out for dinner tonight?” he'd murmured softly. “Take your mind off things?”

            She'd shaken her head slightly.

            “Sorry, no can do, sugah.  Me and Logan…”

            “You and _Logan_ ,” he'd muttered vindictively, unable to stop himself.

            “Me and Logan and _Betts_ have booked the _Danger Room_ for a session,” she'd informed him, raising her head and glaring at him archly. “Remy, just what is your problem with him?”

            “My problem?  Well for one t'ing, he's an overrated, hairy little bastard who's always swaggerin' round like he owns the place.  And secondly, maybe I don't like de way he's always hangin' round you lookin' like he's ready t' swat flies away wit' dose claws of his.”

            She'd raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Ah can't believe it - Remy LeBeau, you’re jealous!”

            He'd scowled, finding the whole thing less than amusing, but she'd squeezed his arm tighter, trying to reassure him.

            “Remy, for your information, there is _nothin'_ goin' on between me and him.  He's like a big brother t' me, that's all.  He knows how nervous Ah am about the whole touch thing… sometimes it makes him a little over-protective.”

            “ _Sometimes_?”

            “Yeah.  He just doesn’t want to see me get hurt.  Besides,” and she'd looked away suddenly, “we have a bond.  Not like the kind lovers do, or even siblings. It's more like the bond between comrades.” He'd looked at her quizzically and she'd replied; “We were on a mission, back when Ah first joined the X-Men.  Everyone hated me then, b'cause before that Ah was runnin' with Mystique's Brotherhood, playin' the mutant terrorist.  Anyway, we were on this mission in Japan, and Ah nearly got killed.  Logan let me borrow his healin' factor so Ah could live.” She'd paused, adding quietly: “He was the first person to give me their power as a gift.”

            “Oh,” was all he'd said.  He'd felt very sheepish.  She'd continued to stare off into space, and when next she spoke her voice had been contemplative.

            “Ah can kinda see it, you know.  Why the baseline humans get frightened of us.  Hell, Ah'd be frightened of myself, if Ah ever got threatened with the kinda power Ah have.  Maybe Ah _want_ the Sentinels to stamp me out.  Maybe it'd put me out of my misery.”

            “You don't mean dat,” he'd said, only half believing it because when he looked into her eyes, when he saw all the pain and all the strangeness in them, sometimes he believed she really did mean it…

            “Maybe.  Ah don’t know.” She'd paused, turning back to him, her lips breaking into a smile. “Maybe yah can take me out after the DR session after all.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah.  Ah'd like to.  Maybe it'd take mah mind off things.”

            “Oh.  Great.” He'd passed her a wry smile and she'd laughed.

            “Ah meant that as a compliment!  Somehow, you always seem to take mah mind off things!”

            “Maybe dat's because I'm on it 24/7.”

            They'd known each other for months now, but she still blushed whenever he really started bantering with her.

            “Don't flatter yourself, Cajun,” she'd pouted at him in that way he loved so much. “Ah like you, but not _that_ much.”

            “Shame,” he'd drawled sexily. “Because I like you, and I like you 'dat much'.  And just for de record,” he'd added shamelessly, “you _are_ on my mind 24/7.  Especially at night.”

            He'd expected to be berated or slapped or teased back mercilessly.  So he'd been surprised when she'd stared him right in the eyes, without a trace of a smile on her lips and murmured: “Y'know… Just this once… Ah'd really like to kiss you.”

            She had been entirely serious.  He'd known he'd never be able to get another chance.  He'd straightened his face, returned her gaze with the utmost sincerity and replied: “So why don't you?”

            A dangerous challenge - she hadn't known then just how much he would have been sacrificing had they shared that one kiss.  Her eyes had widened, then darkened.

            “Yah crazy?  You know what would happen if --”

            “I told you, I'm willin' t' take de risk,” he'd interrupted in a low voice. “Are you?”

            The same question, and this time she'd known he really, truly meant it… There had been confusion in her eyes, want, passion, desire…

            “Ah --”

            He'd lowered his face towards hers, prompting her, tempting her…

            “Remy, you don't know what it's like…”

            “I don't care.  Show me.”

            “ _No_.”

            “You want to.”

            “But it doesn’t mean --”

            “I want to kiss you too.  I've wanted to from the first moment I met you.  Don’t keep me waitin', chere, 'cos I don't t'ink I can stand it any longer.”

            Uncertainty, uncertainty in those gorgeous green eyes as she realised how far he was willing to go…

            “This is crazy…” she'd whispered.

            “Crazy, just like when you kissed Cody back?  Crazy because you never knew you wanted it?  But you did, chere.  Just like you want t' kiss me now.”

            He'd made a grave error, and he'd known it as soon as he'd said it.  At the mentioning of Cody's name she'd frozen, and the next moment she'd pulled back, her arms going slack about his own.  She was trembling slightly.

            “Rogue --” he'd begun, knowing he'd made a fatal mistake, but she'd cut him off before he'd apologised.

            “That was below the belt, Cajun,” she'd murmured.

            “I know, I'm sorry…”

            “You don't understand.”

            “I do, I just… I don't know why dat came out, it was insensitive of --”

            “But that's what you are, isn’t it,” she'd said sadly. “Insensitive.  The way you look at women, the way you make them feel like there's somethin' more when there _is_ nothin' more.  Ah don't even know why you'd be willin' to take the risk with me.  Ah'm just a game, aren't Ah.  'Cos this can't be serious, it can't _ever_ be serious.  Even if we did go out to dinner tonight, tomorrow you’d be out findin' some other woman to fuck.  All this talk about risk… Ah'm a risk you'd never be willin' to take, Remy.  Not for _real_.”

            She'd unwrapped her arms from his and stood up, walked to the door.

            “Rogue --” he'd begun, but before he could get the words out she'd gone.

            He would never have been able to spit it out anyway.

            He'd never have been able to say _I care for you_.

           

            The very next day, the military had attacked.

 -oOo-


	23. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue and Gambit finally head on their mission to the Hound Pens, each with the knowledge that one will probably have to kill the other. But can either one do it?

            Outside the sky was roiling; against the blackness great white clumps of snow were falling, thick and heavy, to the ground below.

            Inside the little room, Rogue stirred softly against Remy.  In the languid aftermath they’d lain entwined together in a perfect silence broken only by disconnected words and disconnected touches, by the exploration of hands on one another, idle play that had guided them to no further conclusion.  After a while they had fallen into stillness again, sinking back into their own thoughts and a mutual sense of contentment.  She had placed her hand upon his breast and listened to his silence, one that was louder than words, louder even than the psyches in her own head.  Once, years ago, lying in this very same spot, she'd felt the urge to absorb his memories, to see what lay inside the depths of his soul.  It amazed her now that she had ever felt the need.  She knew enough; enough to read his silences, to read his touches.  She needed nothing more.

            “Shoulda kissed you,” he murmured suddenly into the silence, breaking her reverie.

            “Hmm?” she mumbled, tilting her face slightly to look questioningly into his eyes.

            “Dat day. De day before de military came and fucked over de mansion and killed Xavier.” He paused, absentmindedly looping a curl of her hair round a forefinger and tugging on it lightly. “Shoulda kissed you,” he finished decidedly, letting the curl bounce free.  She chuckled quietly.

            “Then Ah woulda seen Sinister in that tortured mind o’ yours and hated yah even more,” she half-joked.

            “I dunno,” he rumbled back. “Figure you woulda absorbed some part of me dat woulda told you I was serious about pinnin’ you down.”

            “And what about all the other stuff in your head?” she murmured back soberly. “What about all your most cherished memories and innermost secrets?  Ah would’ve gotten them too.”

            She felt him shrug against her.

            “Would’ve been nice, I’m t’inkin’, t’ have someone understand me for a change.” He paused and stared at the white flakes of snow flitting across the window, a pensive look on his face.  She followed his gaze, and they were both quiet for a long moment, saying nothing. When next he spoke, his eyes were still on the window. “Was it easy, chere?  Sleepin’ wit’ other men?”

            She was silent, feeling the weight of his words sink into her with an oddly alien texture; the stillness seemed to pass like an age as she stared at the little rectangle of window, framing the same little patch of sky that had been theirs for so long.

            “No,” she answered at last, simply, honestly. “No, it wasn’t.  Not at first.  But it got easier.”

            He shifted; she felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t return the look, couldn’t explain the feeling inside her – how could she find the words to tell him that all of it had been a sacrifice, a sacrifice for them, for the only thing that had kept her going through even the most degrading and humiliating moments? “But it didn’t matter, did it?” she continued thickly, flatly. “You were right, Remy.  We can have no ties, no loyalties, no loves.  Ah was only livin’ the way Ah was s’pposed to be livin’, doin’ what people like us are s’pposed to do.”

            His eyes were still on her, tracing the contours of her face with a stark intensity she still could not reciprocate.

            “And you believed what I said, back then?” he murmured, his voice low.

            “There was a truth to your words,” she whispered back.  Silence.  Silence falling thickly again like the snow outside, cradling them both in a cold and knowing hand.  She closed her eyes and continued: “But no one, not you, not any of those other men, not even the statics can take it away from me.  They can’t take away feelin’.  It doesn’t matter who you are.  It doesn’t matter where Ah’ve been.  Ah can’t stop wantin’ t’ be with you; and besides,” her voice lowered to little above a whisper, “you're the only good thing Ah have left.”

            She paused, feeling his eyes burning in the darkness, willing her to look at him, but she couldn’t.

            “It was the feelin’ that Ah had to switch off,” she began again hoarsely, blinking her eyes open, still unable to meet his gaze. “And then it became easier.  That’s all it takes.  Just switchin’ all the finer feelin’s off, just like killin’ the ignition and goin’ on autopilot.” She reached out then, swallowing back the metallic taste in her throat, splaying her fingers upon his flesh once more, feeling the intricate etchwork of scars imprint itself onto her palm. “Isn't it the same way with killin'?” she whispered softly. “Even if it's only for the sake of the mission?”

            She was brave enough to meet his eyes then, finding his glance now wary, watchful.  Yet she did not find it hard to return the look with all the openness and honesty she now knew could only exist between them.  It was a challenge - a challenge for him to see that she knew what Essex had planned for her, that she knew the only way this could end.  They said nothing for a long moment, each holding the other's gaze; and then abruptly, something flickered in those beautiful, deep red eyes and she realised.

            _He knows.  He knows Ah know…_

            “It's different,” he answered at last, his voice a low undertone.

            “Yeah.  Ah guess it is.” She nodded. “Even if Ah had to sell my body, Ah got to keep my soul.  Whenever Ah came up here with you, Ah still had that soul.  Maybe it wasn't as beautiful as it should've been, but Ah still got to keep it.” Her gaze flittered over the walls as she said the words, as though she was marking every inch of the room in her mind.  Then she turned back to him and said, thoughtfully; “Killin's different.  It chips away at your soul, until there's nothin' left.”

            “I'm still here,” he whispered.

            “But at what price, Remy?  For all the souls that you saved, didn't your heart ever bleed for the few that you sold?”

            He looked away.  His mind was on a young boy, a young boy named Leech, the one face that had truly pricked his conscience.

            “Honestly…” he began; but the sentence remained unfinished.  His eyes shifted to hers once more, curious, challenging. “But with Kincaid and Guess… if I hadn't turned up when I did, would you really have let them live, knowing that you would've been sacrificin' your own life instead?”

            “Ah wouldn’t have cared,” she answered with certainty.

            “Even if your death had meant there was no more freedom and justice than there was before?  Even if it had achieved nothing?  We're not martyrs, Rogue.  We're invisible as ghosts, no one cares, no one even sees if we live or die; we're ghosts…”

            “Ghosts outside, not in,” she interjected gently. “Ah told you, Remy.  If Ah had to kill Ah'd be dead.  Dead inside.  It would be the end for me.  In every sense.  Ah wouldn't be able to carry on.” She paused, and he said nothing this time; but his eyes were still on hers, intent, assessing… And suddenly she realised that she had to tell him the truth. “Irene showed me somethin',” she began to tell him softly. “Yesterday night, Ah absorbed her powers.  To be honest, Ah didn't believe any of this bullshit about Rachel.  Ah thought it was just another one of Raven's paranoid obsessions.  But Ah saw it, Remy.  Ah saw… _everythin'_.  So many worlds beyond ours, so many timelines, so many of _us_ …” She held a tremulous breath, released it slowly. “There _are_ other worlds out there.  And if Rachel could chronoskim, if she could take us there…”

            She halted, her voice suddenly wavering with emotion, and he cupped her head in one palm, gently rubbed the nape of her neck and said: “You believe she could?”

            “Ah…Ah don't know.  The Professor was always tryin' to help her to develop it, but Ah don’t know what kinda damage the Hound programming could've done to her powers.  Ah don't even know if he taught her how to do it properly.”

            “You believe in it then?” he asked. “Dat she's worth savin'?  Dat she's de one who could end all dis?” His eyes were burning; the pressure of his fingers in her hair had increased.

            “Yes,” she replied with finality.  He sucked in an imperceptible breath, looked away, then back at her again. “Ever since yesterday,” she explained in a voice that was barely above a whisper, “Ah've realised that Ah have another chance.  _Ah have another chance,_ Remy.  All this time, Ah've been holdin' onto a tether, a life that has no meanin' anymore.  Here, now, Ah've screwed up… _everythin’_.  But out there, there must be other Rogues that are happy, that made the most of their lives.  Even if Ah don’t have a chance to be somethin', to be the kinda person Ah've always wanted to be, _they_ do.  And Rachel's the key.”

            “Rogue --” His fingers were still in her hair, but motionless now; his eyes had changed, were troubled, but she didn’t want to hear him, she didn’t want to hear him dissuade her.

            “Ah saw her, Remy.  Right at the end of it all, Ah saw her.” She gave a small, mirthless laugh. “It's funny - Ah don’t even know how Ah knew it was her, but it _was_ her.  A burst of fire, like the whole _universe_ was gonna go up in flames, but at the same time like it was gonna be _reborn_ … Like the phoenix, risin' from the ashes… It's a feelin' Ah can't describe, Remy, and Ah wish, just for once, that Ah could make you understand, that Ah could show you how it is… The end of the world… The beginning of the world… The beginning of _everythin'_ …”

            Her voice was wavering again, and she couldn’t look him in the eye anymore for fear of shedding tears.  So she lowered her head, rested it upon his chest, upon his heartbeat, the only thing that had kept her going for so many long, empty years…

            “Ah'm willin' t' die for it, Remy,” she whispered at last.

            _So take me, Remy, it won't make it a betrayal if Ah want it.  See through the mission, free Rachel, do the right thing and let her go free; live on, be happy.  Always be happy…_

            His hand rested on the back of her head; he was so still, so silent that, if not for his heartbeat, she would have thought she had killed him already.

            “Rogue --” he began again hoarsely, but faltered off before he could say the words - perhaps he didn't know what he wanted to say after all.  She didn’t mind.  She didn’t want to hear him say it.  It was better this way, after all.  No attachments, no bonds, no love.  It wasn’t about honour or pride, or dignity.  It was about humanity - _all_ humanity.  It was about something bigger even than _that_ , about saving it, preserving it.  It was a universal truth; it was _everything_.  And now she felt calm.  She felt calmer than she'd felt in years.  All that time fighting against destiny, fighting against her fate, and now she was ready to face it, stoic as the gladiator, as the martyr making his sacrifice for the liberty of others.  It didn’t matter if the world would never see it.

            She was ready.

            And he _knew_ she was ready.

            She did not know how long the silence between them lasted, but for some reason she was content to lie there against him, listening to his heartbeat.  He would live on, she knew it; he always would, it was what he did, he was resourceful, protean.  Like Raven he could mould himself into any shape he wanted - it was this one basic skill that she lacked, the ability to be malleable and thus indestructible.  She couldn’t because she had stolen the essence of so many - nothing was more sacred to her than her own identity.  But he… he would go on.  He would always have someone to hold him close on a cold night.  He would always be there, her dark angel, the thing she loved most. 

            _Just let him live, and Ah'll never regret this…_

            She rolled away from him; but he wasn't quite ready to surrender her so easily.  His arms encircled her from behind; she felt him press his face against her hair as he held her close to him, tenderly, protectively, as though she would shatter in his grasp.

            “De key to deprogrammin' a Hound,” he murmured into her ear. “Hit them wit' a memory.  Any memory dat means somet'ing to them.  Better still, hit them wit' as many as you can.  It confuses them, it breaks them.”

            She stared wide-eyed at the wall.  In saying those words he'd tacitly implied that he too was willing to make the same sacrifice she was.

            _If one of us is killed, the other can see the mission through to the end…_

            It was somehow worse than if she'd clung to him and been unable to let him go.  And yet… …

            “Rachel's at the back of the compound,” she found herself whispering back. “In sector D, cell fifty.  There's a crawlspace you can use to get through to it, from the maintenance room in sector C; an air vent.  Don’t wait for Mystique to show up, she'll kill you if Ah haven't.  It can be done in about fifteen minutes, if you're quick.”

            There.  They were equal now.  Lord, they were equal, with all the risks it entailed…

            She closed her eyes and gripped his hands, sudden agony etched on her face.

            “Remy --” she whispered, but he silenced her gently, the warmth of his breath in her hair.

            “Shh,” he whispered. “Get some sleep, Rogue.  It'll be all right.  I'll be here.  Get some sleep.”

            No.  It would never be all right.  Not ever again.  Because she loved him.  Because she'd never be able to do it.  She would never be able to destroy the one life that had given hers so much meaning.

            He kissed her hair.  Outside the snowfall had deepened; the moon was nowhere in sight.

           

            It was a long time before she slept, but when she did, he was still wide-awake.

 -oOo-

            He was still awake when she woke up; she couldn't even tell if he had slept at all.

            This time there was no pretence, there was no differentiation between what was pleasure and what was business.  Their touches, their kisses were all they had left.

            She stood in front of the old dresser mirror and stared at herself for a long time.  It was as if, for the first time, she was seeing herself for what she was; there were no longer any blinders over her eyes.  For the first time in so many years, her actions this day would be hers and hers alone.  And in that she felt a certain freedom.  It was the same kind of freedom she had felt every time she had come into this room and made love to him, the feeling that she was fighting the world and all the suffering it contained.

            And this time she would succeed.  This time she _would_ make a difference.

            She picked up the cell phone beside her and dialled Raven's number.

            There was only one ring before she answered.

            “Rogue?”

            “Momma?  Everything's in place.  We'll meet you there at noon.”

            “Rogue, what happened last night?  Simmons was on the news just a few minutes ago, they found him murdered in his suite!  What the fuck--?”

            “He knew, momma.  He recognised me.  He almost had me cold… He was crazy, Raven, Ah thought Ah was dead for sure.  Luckily Remy was around to bail me out.”

            “That fucking idiot!” Raven rasped through gritted teeth. “He killed Simmons, didn’t he?!” She paused, her breath coming sharp and deep. “Is he there, Rogue?  Is that jumped-up little fucker in the room with you right now?”

            Rogue glanced in the mirror.  Remy was standing a little way behind her, smoking a cigarette; her eyes met his and he shook his head mutely.

            “No,” she replied after a moment. “He's in the shower.”

            “I don’t trust him, Rogue.  Today is the day when all our work comes together.  I'm _certain_ Sinister wants sole possession of Rachel himself.  Promise me you won't let that happen.”

            She closed her eyes, inhaled a soundless breath, then opened them again.

            “Don’t worry, momma.  It's all sorted.  Just be there at noon, okay?”

            “We will.”

            “Good.” She hesitated, then added: “Raven… did Irene… has she said anythin' since Ah left?”

            “No.” Mystique sounded confused. “Should she?”

            “No, no.  Ah just thought… Ah just thought she might've seen somethin'…” _Like how this all turns out…_ “Don't worry. It's nothin'.  Probably just me gettin' the heebie-jeebies.”

            “Don’t.  For God's sake, I need you to be focused today, Rogue.  Despite that idiot Cajun's actions last night, we have to go ahead with our plans as usual.  As far as I can tell from all the news reports, the cops are still clueless about Simmons.”

            “Are they bringing the Hounds in?  That could be a problem.”

            “Not yet.  It seems they're treating it as a bungled robbery at the moment, but I heard the feds were being called in.  I don't know whether that's going to last.  That's why we've got to work fast today, Rogue.  Do you hear me?”

            “Ah hear yah, loud and clear.” She stopped, watching Remy stub out his cigarette before speaking again. “Look, Ah gotta go.  Meet you later, okay?  Bye.”

            She switched the phone off and set it down on the dresser again.  Despite everything Raven had put her through over the years, she still found it strange and somewhat distressing to think that she would never hear her voice again.

            There was no time to mourn this as she felt Remy's arms wrap round her from behind, and she shivered, arching slightly when she felt his lips press against the dip between her neck and her shoulder in a slow, sensuous kiss.  She watched him kiss his way across the line of her shoulder, painstakingly slow and deliberate, lavishing his tender caresses on her as if there would never be another chance to do so.  She closed her eyes, savouring each bittersweet moment, etching it onto her memory along with the rest of all her meaningless treasures.

            “Today,” he murmured into her flesh.

            “Today,” she agreed on a whisper.

            When she opened her eyes, he had stopped.  His chin was propped on her shoulder, and he was gazing at her reflection in the mirror.  They stood there for a long while, gazing at their entwined reflection; it was the first time they'd seen one another together.  Again Rogue felt as if she were embossing this image onto her memory, locking it away deep inside her.  The moment was so unnervingly profound that she was almost relieved when he finally stirred and unwrapped her from his embrace.  Then his hands were on her upper arms, swivelling her away from the mirror, making her face him; when she did so, when she looked up into his eyes, his gaze was intent, lustful, so full of desire…

            Last time.

            She tilted her head slightly, welcoming him, and he pulled her against him, his kisses increasing in passion until she could barely breathe under the intensity of them… She clung to him, steadying herself, feeling the flare rise up in her throat, choking her… She didn't think she could bear this, she didn’t think she could bear his sweet kisses any longer…

 

            As if he had sensed this he eased away gently, breaking the embrace, his lips lingering seductively on her own before finally letting her go.

            When she opened her eyes again, he was smiling cockily as if nothing had happened.

            “I'm gon' go and get ready, 'kay, chere?” he murmured in that same old wolfish tone.  She half-smiled, let her hands slide away from him.

            “Okay,” she whispered.

            He stepped away, but she remained at the mirror a moment longer.  The butterfly pendant glistened against her bare skin, bright as a star she could wish upon.  Without thinking she clutched it in her palm, held it tight.

            _One more day of good luck,_ she silently implored. _Just one more day of good luck is all Ah ask._

 -oOo-

            They left an hour earlier than they'd been intending to; outside the snow was lighter, flittering delicately to the ground, turning the squalid square of apartment blocks into a shimmering field of pure white.  In the space of a night, something cheerless and ugly had been turning into something beautiful.  It gave her a sense of hope, of fortitude - that this indeed was a memory worth fighting for.

            “Ready?”

            Remy was already at the bike, waiting for her.  She stood in the snow, pulling the leather gloves over her hands, flexing her fingers inside the thick, cold material, watching the fabric stretch taut like an old memory.  She looked up.

            “As Ah'll ever be.”

            She clambered up onto the driver's seat of her bike, whilst he got up behind her.  From now until either one of them got to Rachel, it was her ballgame.

            “Yah comfortable back there, sugah?” she asked him, breathing wisps of condensation into the morning air.  Behind her, she could almost feel him grin.

            “Very.” His arms encircled her waist. “Makes a nice change to have you bein' the one ridin'.”

            Jokes and banter.  It was almost like it used to be.  She half-smiled and switched on the ignition.  She was looking forward to this.  What she needed was to feel the wind hit her so hard it stung, for her to feel _alive_.  She hit the gas, revving up the engine, making her own stomach churn with dread anticipation.  She was going to drive hard and fast as if her life depended on it, as though into the very sundown of her life.

            “Better watch out, Cajun,” she threw back at him with a relish she couldn’t hide. “Ah have a feelin' this ride’s gonna be a wild one.”

            Before they left she looked back over her shoulder just once, her heart stirring with a sense of longing for the place that had contained them for so long.  They'd both closed the door on their room, closed this chapter of their lives, cut off the thread that had linked them to the grand tapestry of Fate.  After today there would be no more, and in a way she could face her destiny now without flinching, because there was nothing left to cling to.

            Because a part of her had died already, on the doorstep of their little room.

 -oOo-

            They rode for two hours, out of the city, through the snow, past the suburbs and the outlying industrial estates.  The sky loomed overhead, pale and mauve but for the charcoal grey clouds seething like the contents of some apocalyptic cauldron.  There was no further snowfall.  Something was still holding out for them at least.  With the wind in her hair and smarting her cheeks, Rogue felt freer than she had done in a long time - a liberation, an exhilaration, like flying, like becoming a part of the elements.  There was nothing left in the world that could ravage her, not when it was hitting her like this. 

            Presently all signs of civilisation began to peter out into a snow-strewn wilderness – the barren wilds that had been left in the first altercations fought between static and mutant, when she had slept in the coma that had shut her off from a rapidly changing world.  She had never wandered here, out into the battle grounds of old - the twisted remnants of the Mark One Sentinels still littered the ground, a city of ruined and rusting weaponry.  This sad wasteland was the furthest she had ever ventured into the real world since her new life had begun; and yet, as she navigated the single road that cut through this forgotten battlefield like a knife, she spared few glances for the scene of the event that had changed so much for mutantkind.  What she rushed to now was the future, not the past.  And if Rachel could bring about a time when wars and battles were no longer needed, it was worth it.  All worth it.

            At last the barren plains gave way once more to vegetation - to hills and vast outcrops of forest.  Rogue steered the bike off the main road and onto a roughly beaten track; here the snow was pure and hadn't been muddied.  A thick wood lined the path on the right; on the left was a great expanse of hills, stretching on into the distance.  The track began to climb a stark incline, which became quite difficult to traverse - more trees sprung up on the left side, obscuring the hilly vistas as the bike laboured up to the crest of the slope. 

            And then, at last, they crested the hill, and were staring out onto a narrow valley nestled protectively by the bluffs and the surrounding forests.  Rogue stopped the bike momentarily, letting Remy follow her gaze down into the valley.  There, sandwiched by the encircling landscape, was spread out a huge enclosure of grey, squat, military-type buildings, neatly ordered into characterless rows and columns, contained within an eight-foot high perimeter fence.  Smoke was rising gently from one of the farthest buildings, but apart from that there was no sound, no movement.

            “The Hound Pens,” Remy breathed beside her.  She glanced at him.  His eyes were narrowed, his jaw set.  Their destination unknown had finally been reached.

            “Ah'll park the bike in the woods,” she told him matter-of-factly. “We'll dismount there and make a quick survey of the region.” She revved up the bike again, turned away. “Raven will be here in just over half an hour.  We'll have to work fast, Remy.  Ah don’t want either of us t' be around when she gets here.”

            She felt him touch her waist, soft, intimate.

            “Rouge…”

            _You sure dis is how you want dis…?_

            She said nothing, guiding the bike slowly right, off the track and into the awaiting woods, letting them swallow her into their depths, letting it feel as if this was the point of no return.  A part of her wanted to turn tail and flee, the other wanted to stand tall and _end_ it…

            She rode in a good thirty metres before they dismounted.  The wood was as still as the hill had been, except for the faint _shlup_ of snow sliding off the canopies overhead and onto the ground below.  She guided him down a little ways into the valley, taking care to mark a path where they would not trip and fall.  At last they came to the edge of the forest; from the cover of the trees they were looking directly out onto Ahab's compound.  From their position the hill suddenly went down in a sharp incline of about thirty degrees, before finally levelling out and giving way to the Pen's perimeter fence.  Up until that moment Rogue hadn't guessed just how hard it was going to be to get down that slope.  There were trees dotted at sparse intervals on the way down, but there were large gaps in-between where there would be no anchor for anyone trying to get down.  Whichever one of them made it would have a tough workout.

            “Yah think yah can make it?” she asked him breathlessly.

            “It's a cakewalk,” he replied from beside her, but there was an uncertain timbre to his voice, and she held her breath, wanting him to be as strong and certain as she _wasn’t…_

            _No.  Ah can do this…_

            “How about security?” he asked.

            “It'll be lunch in half an hour,” she answered, glancing at her watch. “Otherwise, security is pretty tight.  From Mystique's files, five guards circle the perimeter in tight formation.  Once the first guard passes this point, we've got a five minute gap to get from here and into the compound before the second makes his appearance.”

            “Seems clear now,” he noted.

            “Yup.” Rogue reached down into her utility belt and produced a pair of binoculars. “We'll haveta wait for a guard to come along before we make our way in.  That way we can time ourselves jus’ right.”

            “You wanna go in now?”

            She passed him a sidelong glance.

            “As soon as poss.  Makes sense t' get this over and done with, huh?”

            He didn’t answer.  She didn’t want him to.

            _Ah've shown you the door, Remy, and it's open.  If it’s you that walks away, all yah haveta do is walk right on through.  Just don’t screw this up.  For the sake of everythin', please don’t._

            “But while we're waitin',” she added as brightly as she could, “Ah'll just check that the rest of the area's clear.  Then we can both mosey on down.”

            She squatted in the snow beside him on the small bank, training her binoculars over the ugly, squat barracks.  Somewhere inside Rachel was waiting, waiting for her destiny to greet her as much as Rogue was rushing towards her own.  Her eyes flickered against the binocular lens.  She remembered, suddenly, the red star earring she had found in the ruined mansion that day so many years ago, that she had dropped it and let it roll away.

            Everything had a meaning.  She felt certain of that now.  Absorbing Irene's power had made things very clear to her.  Every moment, every second had meaning, had purpose, to some ultimate end of which she would only play a very minute part.  And if Irene's visions were true - if Rachel _was_ at the end of it all - then Rogue's own meaning was to be here now, helping to break her free.  She was in the right place, and this was the right time.  It had always _been_ the right time.  She could feel it.  She could feel the vestiges of Irene's power, telling her that this was right, telling her……

            Instinctively her hand went to the knife at her thigh, her fingers closing over the hilt.  It was there; it had always been there.

            And up until that moment she'd never realised it… but she'd always known that she was going to let _him_ win.

            “Clear?” he asked above her.

            She tucked the binoculars back inside her belt, rose to her feet.    

            “Clear,” she said, her voice catching on the air, a tangible cloud of smoke.  The moment had come, that lingering quiet, the moment she had been dreading but that she now greeted with an odd detachment.  Finally, it had come.  Understanding.  She could wrestle with her feelings no longer.  It was either him, or her.

            She swung, her knife flashing upwards in a silver arc, but he’d already anticipated her attack, had already taken a mere step back and she realised her mistake too late, a mistake neither her head nor heart could afford.  He’d known, all this time he’d known as she had, that _this was the moment_ … She cried out, a growl of fear and frustration as she lunged forwards again, but he was quicker, grasping her arm in a vice-like grip before her blow could connect.  Their gazes met, just for a second, a momentary flash in the frosty sunlight, and the next he’d knocked the knife from her grasp, tripped her into the snow.  She gasped for breath, her throat aching, her lungs burning as he followed her to the ground, pinning her into the snowdrift with his body, and she saw the flash of the knife before she saw his eyes, clutched between his fingers and emanating the warm pink glow of his energy signature.  He held it to her throat, said ever so softly: “Sorry, chere…”

            She struggled, but he pressed the fullness of his weight into her and she caught her breath again, feeling the familiar heaviness of his body against her own … He was enjoying this, he was loathing this.

            And now it was plain.  What Irene had seen, what she had known for so many years – that all these feelings, all these dreams, all these years were funnelling down into this one moment, this one single event.  From the very beginning, since the second they'd met one another again in that dark and dirty alley four years ago, it’d been either him or her and one inch that was going to cost her her life.  For so long they'd been blind and only now did they both see it.

            She gritted her teeth and said nothing.  She was ready to die, it was what she wanted, an end to all this pain, all this suffering, all this hopelessness, the darkness that had shrouded her all these years.  She would welcome release, even if it meant there would be no more them, no more clandestine meetings, no more stolen kisses and heartfelt fumblings in their lonely little room.  Because she couldn’t bear it anymore, she couldn’t bear the other 364 days of the year when they were apart and constantly thinking about one another.

            _End it, Remy…_

            But his eyes, his eyes were so sad, almost tender… and his breath was warm on the cold air, on her skin, making her lips part, making her breath come heavy…

            “Beg me t’ stop, Rogue,” he whispered. “Tell me t’ stop an’ I will.”

            She closed her eyes, dug her teeth into her lip.

            “I love you, Rogue,” he told her, and for the first time she heard his voice tremble.

            Her eyelids stung.

            “Rogue, please…Look at me…”

            Horror was filling her, wild and desperate… Her fingers were in the snow, scrabbling, and she felt them enclose around a rock, a jagged rock, small, but big enough…

            She stopped thinking.

            Her mind felt almost divorced from her body, as if she were an outsider looking at her own body swing its arm in a quick, sharp arc, smashing the rock into the side of his skull, and at the impact, the horrible impact she was jolted back inside herself, and she let out a sickened scream as she felt him slump against her, as she realised what she had done.  His hand was limp against her throat, still holding the knife, and she moved it away, trembling violently, tears blurring her eyes, whimpering as she nudged him off her and back into the snow.  Shaking, she sat up, her body weak and querulous as jelly.  He was lying beside her, droplets of blood colouring the snow in a crimson spray where he lay.  She leant over him, sobbing quietly as she stripped the gloves from her hands and ran her fingers over his face again and again, as if she could hold that face and emboss it upon her heart.  Even there, in the snow, so white and cold and unfeeling, he was beautiful, so beautiful…

            She dipped her head and kissed the unresponsive lips, kissed them again and again in a way she'd never been able to before, feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion explode in her chest, and for the first time in years she was crying, really crying.

            “Oh Remy, Ah love you… Ah love you, Remy… Ah love you too…”

            She didn't know how long she remained like that, kissing him and repeating that mantra over and over until her sobs became dry and her throat was too hoarse to speak.  It was the first time she'd ever spoken those words and she'd never known how much they'd needed to be said before.  Except now they were too late…

            She slumped against him, weeping softly, feeling her determination, her resolution slip away like a thief into the night.  This beautiful sacrifice, this glorious ending she'd envisioned for herself, stripped away, vanished in a second.  He was meant to have won, he was meant to have killed her, he was meant to have walked away and ended this all but somehow there had been a mistake and she didn’t understand it, she didn’t know where it had gone wrong…

            _I love you, Rogue_.

            He hadn't been able to do it.  He hadn't been able to kill her.  The moment he'd said it he'd ruined it all.  She'd trusted him enough never to love her, never to form this one last unbreakable attachment to her.  It was the only reason she could have seen this through.  But to hear him say that, to hear him admit that they could be something bigger than this sacrifice; that all those years of dirty, tawdry encounters were really something more, something _better_ , something really worth holding onto…  …

            He'd said to her, _I destroy every good thing I touch_.  And she'd done the same.  Because to have that good thing was too much, too much for someone as tainted and spoiled as her to handle, and she _wanted_ it, she wanted it so badly, she'd wanted it for so many years and now it was _gone_ …

            At last she fell silent, letting the eerie stillness of the snowdrift cradle them both, clasping him tight to her, afraid to let him go.  And suddenly she felt it.

            His heartbeat.

            Fluttering against the wall of his chest, soft as butterfly wings…

            Like Kincaid on that fateful day three years ago, like Rogue herself awakening from her coma six months after she should have died… he was alive.

            He was alive.

            _Everythin' has meaning_ …

            Rogue sat up, her fingers trembling as she touched his neck, feeling for his pulse, her cheeks cold where her tears had frozen.  He was alive, and that meant something.  Fate was trying to send her a message… _What message?_  She bit her lip to stop herself from shaking as she finally felt his pulse, shallow but still so strong, still so resolute, pounding away beneath his skin.  She frowned, clutching the coat at his chest, pulling it tighter about him, trying to keep him warm, trying to hold him inside his own body.

            She knew what this meant.

            She knew what to do.

            She _knew_.

            Her breath was coming slower now.  With shuddering hands she wiped the tears from her eyes, cupped his cheeks in her palms and stared down into his face.  The secretive face now open and unassuming, pinched and bloody yet beautiful… Her own expression was now calm as she leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the cold yet still passionate lips.

            “Ah'm comin' back, Remy,” she murmured against his mouth. “Ah'm comin' back.  And then Ah'm goin' t' take us both away.”

            She pulled - the contact was fleeting, gentle, ephemeral.  It was enough.  She only needed a smidgen of his psyche anyway.  There - she'd crossed the barrier she'd sworn never to cross; she'd taken a part of him.  Still, it was painful to break away, but there was little time left to do what she must; she sat up slowly, wiped the blood from his face with her sleeve with a tender attentiveness.  Then she stood and trudged back onto the edge of the bank with broken steps.  Below her, inside the Hound enclosure, one of the guards was just completing his round.

            It was now or never.

-oOo-


	24. Gamble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue finally goes to face the Hounds and draws out Rachel Summers; but the mission doesn't exactly go according to plan.

            Gambit's thoughts, Gambit's memories were rising with the tide, they were fighting to be recognised, to be given cognition, but she was fighting back, she was fighting to ignore them, she didn’t want to know, she had never wanted to know, but his personality was so strong, so insistent, and she'd only stolen so very little…

            Rogue ignored him with an effort and vaulted the length of the Hound pen's perimeter fence with all the graceful poise he possessed, clean, effortless - her limbs had never felt this supple, this agile. It was so easy, so beautiful to be like him, to move like him…  She landed inside the enclosure, her heart pumping painfully in her chest.  Dread, anxiety, exhilaration, passion… too many conflicting emotions, so much inside her it was going to burst…

            Rogue ran to the nearest building and crouched down low by the wall.  She had all of two minutes to get out of there before the next guard came round on his circuit, but her mind was swimming, he was dragging her down and a part of her wanted to be dragged down with him…

            _I'm an expert at compartmentalisation…_

_You don’t know who I am, chere.  You don’t know what I want, you can't give it to me and you just don’t get it…_

_One day I'll work out just exactly_ why _you keep me around…_

_I love you, Rogue._

            She resurfaced on a breath, shuddering, quaking, pushing him away.  One and a half minutes left.  She hugged herself tight, feeling her flesh goosepimple under the bodysuit, feeling her skin crawl with perverse delight.

            She knew how he felt.  She _knew_ …

            “Go away,” she whispered.

            One minute and counting.

            _You're de flame and I'm de moth…_

            “ _Go away_ ,” she hissed under her breath.

            Silence.

            He was gone.

            Rogue opened her eyes and got to her feet, her ears pricking at footfalls in the snow and she hoisted herself up onto a nearby windowsill, swinging up elegantly onto the roof of the building just as the guard walked past down below her.

            She stretched out, stomach-first, on the flat gravel roof and caught her breath.  The stream of memories was quieting; his powers were fading.  He'd got her across the fence and into the Hound grounds, but already the codes to the pens were evaporating.

            She squeezed her eyes shut and sifted through his remaining memories, forcing herself into the calm composure Mystique had so impressed upon her, but it was an inhuman effort this time to stay in control.  And despite the fact that his personality was disappearing, he was still so _strong_ …

            _Forget de codes, chere.  You don’t need 'em.  Best t'ing is to draw Rachel to us._

            “But it's dangerous…” she whispered.

            _Whole fuckin' t'ing was dangerous from de get-go, chere.  I know what you're gonna do, and you gotta do it before Mystique comes and screws t'ings up for us.  Cut all de loose ends, Rogue, we don't need 'em no more.  Bring Rachel to us._

            “Remy… Ah'm scared…”

            _No need to be, not anymore.  Focus.  We're gonna get through dis together.  Trust me, chere, gambits are what I'm good at.  Just come back to me in one piece…_

            “Ah will…”

            Silence again, this time as hollow and empty as she had felt the day she'd woken up from her coma and thought him dead.  He was gone, and so were his powers, his memories, the codes he'd charmed from Anton Simmons' secretary the night before.  She couldn’t get in the pens now.  She had no choice.

            She stood, and this time the calm wasn’t a front.  She knew exactly what she had to.  She was resolved to it.

            She closed her eyes, cleared her mind, opened it wide in the way Xavier had once taught her.

            _Rachel, it's Rogue.  Ah'm here.  Come an' get me._

            She opened her eyes again - the world was still and silent about her, not a sound to be heard on the horizon, a quietness that would have unnerved a soul less brave than she.

            _Rachel, Ah'm outside.  Do your job, come out and get me._

            Can telepaths read your mind if you think loud enough?  She'd never been able to work it out, but it was the only strategy she had left.  There was little time left to think now.  She jumped off the roof, missing Remy's fluid agility as she did so.  To have had it now would've been a blessing, but she had to make do with what she had.  She ran between the buildings, her boots crunching in soft, fresh snow, her breath catching in the air, thick and tangible, life itself…

            _Rachel…_

            Could she be heard?

            _Rachel…_

            There was a faint sound in the distance, the howl of something human and yet not so, curdling Rogue's blood, making her halt in her tracks and crouch low against a wall, sandwiched in-between two low buildings.  At the end of the alley she could see it - the entrance to the compound, the guard-post rising up out of the snow, looking out over the main gates.  If she went out into the open now, she would be spotted.  It didn’t matter which way she did it, to go out there would be tantamount to suicide, but if it was the only way to draw her quarry to her so be it.

            _Rachel, Ah'm out front, come an' get me…_

            That sound again, closer, a howl of pain and rage and suffering and torment, and Rogue blanched, recognising the sound, recognising it in her own self…

            It was the sound of the screams she heard in her head every night.

            And then there were more of them.  More and more, yelps and howls and screams echoing about the barracks… The battle cries of the Hounds, the cries that made every mutant quake with a fear that touched their very soul.  They could feel her, they could sense her, they could taste her, they were on the hunt, they were searching for their prey, thirsting for the kill…

            _Ah've drawn the whole fuckin' lot out…_

            Her mind was searing white-hot, throbbing with a hideous intensity behind her eyes, telling her to cringe and hide; but she was running into the light, towards the cold expanse of snow, and destiny, Fate, it was all rushing towards her on some great tide, and she was screaming, over and over…

            _RACHEL!_

            She was racing for the gate.  She didn’t know how or why - the muscles in her legs were bunching and releasing like the wiring and circuitry of a cold automaton and as she ran she could hear the wail of a klaxon begin to rise; they'd detected her, they knew she was here…

            Thudding in the snow behind her, little earthquakes pounding away, thick and fast, drawing closer… she couldn’t outrun them… She knew it, this was suicide; her gambit, _their_ gambit had failed…

            _Whup!_

            Something red-hot and sharp had slammed into her back, or so she thought; there was no pain, just the stark sensation of impact, and she tumbled to the ground face-first.  She gasped for breath, tasting snow and grit in her mouth, spitting it out, only just managing to swivel round onto her back, her eyes blinded by sunlight…

            Too late.  A shape was flying through the air, obscuring the sun, a grotesque shadow, human-shaped, no… animal-shaped, pouncing… _What did they do to you…?_

            She couldn’t roll away in time.  The thing landed on her with an almighty impact that forced the wind out of her.  The body was hard, muscular, solid sinew working with the titanic force of boulders rolling downhill, crashing into every obstacle in their path, and no matter how much she struggled it was like fighting a living, breathing monolith.  There was the hideous cacophony of human baying encircling her, buzzing through her ears with bloodthirsty clarity and she knew with certainty that the Hounds were around her, that they were calling Ahab to them, to the kill.

            The glare of the sunlight was fading and she blinked once, twice, her breath burning in her lungs.  There was a face in front of her - snarling, contorted, every inch the face of the beast; but, to her horror, it was human…

            It was Rachel.

            Rogue stopped.  Everything stopped.  The insular, sullen, pretty little face now maimed, etched with ugly black scars, the stamp of Ahab's property; the once long, wavy red locks shorn to the scalp; the studded dog collar marking her out as nothing more than a mere animal, a beast, a nothing.

            _We are the faceless and the formless, wanting to become something complete and beautiful and whole, striving to become human…_

            “Rachel…” Rogue breathed, her voice thin, hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and yet she needed to reach out to her, to the girl that lay hidden within this monster, at every cost she must…

            But there was no recognition in the twisted face, and this time Rogue felt small hard fingers gripping her neck, pressing into her throat… But she had to _try_ …

            “Rachel…”

            The face spasmed, only briefly, before erupting, flame-like, into the snarling, spitting, all-consuming rage Rogue had only seen before once, in the eyes of Anton Simmons.  The next thing she knew she was being lifted clean off her feet, and the Hounds were baying for her blood, triumph and greed in their voices, calling for their master, calling for him to _come_ …  She couldn’t allow it.  She _had_ to break Rachel's bonds, but those talons were still around her throat, and stars were puncturing her eyesight, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe…

            _Rachel, it's me, please, open your eyes, your mind, your heart, everything you have, please break out of it!_

            The growl that emanated from Rachel's throat was that of the wolf.  A second later she had flung Rogue aside with the gesture of having flung nothing more than a rag-doll - Rogue sailed through the air, grasping at nothing, stopping only when she felt her back slam with all the strength of a hurricane against the pen's perimeter gates, metal buckling behind her with the force of the collision, splintering, giving way…  She was crashing through the gates, back into the snow, cushioned only by the twisted metal debris, and she felt something long and hard press against her thigh, puncture it, sliding in smooth and liquid… molten lava boring its way into her bones, her flesh; veins and nerves and tendons and atoms erupting as the metal impaled her… …

            For the first time she screamed.

            Somewhere inside the maelstrom of pain she was seized again and flung aside; but she could barely register it, her mind was still seething with the agony of her injury.  She only vaguely felt herself colliding with the trunk of some tree, heard the distant whooping of the Hounds that were still gathered inside the gates watching on from the sidelines, and her body, slumping into the snow, buckling over the gnarled and twisted roots of trees, retching, bringing up nothing, sick with a nausea that was surging through every fibre of her body…

            She felt hands on her collar again, the same small hands that had cradled the head of the dying Xavier, no tenderness now, no softness.  Rachel was the cat and Rogue was the mouse.  This was sport to the Hound - when Ahab came, _he_ would be the one to make the kill.

            So precious little time…

            _Time…_

“Rachel…”

_Hit them wit' a memory.  Any memory dat means somet'ing to them.  Better still, hit them wit' as many as you can.  It confuses them, it breaks them…_

And somehow it was spilling out…

            “It's Rogue, Rachel.  It’s me.  Don’t you remember?  We were X-Men once.  Remember?”

            Her vision shifted, focused slowly - Rachel's face was within inches of hers, the scarred face seething, frothing, no recollection, nothing behind the rage…

            She dragged the words out of her mouth, syllable by painful syllable.

            “Storm… no… the Christmas party.  We were at the Christmas party… Storm and Logan were makin' fun of you for kissin' Kurt under the mistletoe…”

            _The elf likes you kiddo, but you better watch out… Rogue can get very possessive of her darlin' brother…_

            She couldn’t help it.  The wetness was already spilling out of her eyes and onto her cheeks, for everything she had lost, for everything she had sacrificed, and Rachel's face was contorting with disgust… A split second later Rogue had been kicked aside, and when she rolled over onto her back she was on the slope once more, she could see the great canopies of trees above her, the calm repose of the forest…

            Rachel was standing over her, looking down on her with the bloody grimace of a hunter closing in on its prey.  Rogue tried to drag herself up into a sitting position, her broken leg blazing, protesting wildly at every movement, but it didn’t matter.  The moment she made signs of getting up Rachel was upon her again, pressing her back down into the snow with the taut strength of her body, and…

            _Thunk._

            The head-butt knocked Rogue onto her back, and the world was yellow, fading in and out of focus, and there was blood in her mouth… She swallowed back the bile in her throat, her hands clawing, her arm coming up, her elbow suddenly driving against Rachel's throat, holding her back…

            “Ah don’t wanna fight you, Rachel…”

            Her voice was broken, pitiful, she didn’t even recognise it anymore…

            “Okay, so we weren't ever friends, but we were comrades… The things we saw… the things we did… The experiences we had together…”

            Rachel was snarling, but she held her back, held her back with the last bit of strength she possessed…

            _Hit them wit' a memory…_

            It was all flashing in front of her, her life, the lives of so many, the lives of the psyches in her head, an infinite stream such as the one she had seen the moment she'd absorbed Irene's powers, too thick, too fast to pinpoint anything of any use, but all of a sudden there was someone, there was something…

            “Xavier,” she spat out on a laboured breath. “Xavier… They killed him… Ahab was in on it… He let them kill Xavier… You were there, Rachel… Ah saw you… You saw them kill Xavier… He was beggin' them for peace, but they shot him down instead, right before your eyes… No kid should've had to see that… But you stayed with him… You stayed with him till Ahab came for you…”

            No recognition, no acknowledgement on the disfigured face; it was snapping, snarling, but Rogue held it back, searching, scrabbling for a memory, _willing_ it to work…

            “Jean Grey… Your mom.  She gave you your favourite pair of earrings for your…your ninth birthday.  Studs like little red stars.  Ah never saw you without them.  They reminded you of her, didn’t they?  After she died.  Because you didn’t have anythin' else except a whole bunch of twisted memories and regrets that you could never change… And those earrings, they stayed with you, they never changed, they never made you feel bad about the way things turned out, they were your lucky charm, something you could remember her by… Ah know.  Ah know, because Ah did the same… Ah hoarded my memories and my little good luck charm because they were the only things that kept me goin'…” Her vision was fading again and she raised her head to the sky, closed her eyes and said; “But it doesn’t change anythin', does it?  We're still broken.  You can't get your mom back, not ever.  And Ah can't get Xavier or his dream back.  Ah can't bring my brother back to life.  Ah can't be innocent anymore, Ah can't start over with the man Ah love and pretend that either of us are the people we used to be.  The old Rogue's gone.  The old Rachel's gone.  But we have a chance, Rae.  You just haveta break free…”

            There she'd said it.  She'd said it all - and yet somehow she knew that it would never be enough.  Because she didn’t know enough about Rachel; she'd never cared enough to know.  They had never confided in one another; there was no memory that Rogue could pull from the past that would ever be enough to break these bonds.  She saw that now.

            She was going to die.

            Her hold broke.  She felt it give way under the irresistible pressure of Rachel's own body, felt the vice-like grip of the Hound on her arm, and then a jerk of the hand and her left shoulder dislocated like a twig from a branch; she gasped, pain flooding her senses - coloured lights were flaring across her eyeballs… And the sickening crack of a boot heel in her ribs, her body rolling into cold, wet, slushy snow, all the fight gone out of her…

            At last, it was all going to end, it was going to be the way she'd always wanted it to be.  She was going to be free…

            _Like hell you are_.

            Her eyes flew open.

            “Remy?”

            _He's still there…_

            Behind her she heard the heavy fall of Rachel's footsteps, closing in on her, second by precious second...

            _I'm not lettin' you walk away wit'out puttin' up a proper fight first, girl.  Been watchin' over you for years, Rogue, and dere's no way you're dyin' on my watch, not if I've got any say in it.  Forget Rachel now, p'tit.  You only got one option left.  You know what to do.  Do it._

            He was already swimming away, back into the depths of her consciousness - but she needed no more prompting.  Just as she heard Rachel pounce she swivelled round onto her back, her wounds no longer any obstacle for what she _knew_ she had to do.

            “Ah'm sorry, Rachel!” she cried, and the moment unfurled before her eyes, millisecond by millisecond, dragged out into a seeming eternity, and again she had that feeling, the overwhelming, innate feeling that this moment had _always_ existed - Rachel coming towards her, her reaching out with her right arm; touching the strange, disfigured face, flesh-to-flesh contact, and realising that the Hound was _human_ , she was _human_ …

            Their eyes met, and for the first time there was something in that feral stare, a begging, a pleading, saying… Saying what?

            _Yes._

_Do it._

_Save me._

Had there been no other confirmation in that one stare, Rogue would have done it anyway.

            One deep breath and she pulled.

-oOo-


	25. Undo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue tries to use Rachel's powers to escape the Days of Future Past timeline with Remy, but she ultimately fails, and so does the mission.

            Rainfall.

            There is rainfall on her skin, rainfall quenching the fires, quenching the parched ground, sizzling on the smoke that still coils about her, thin and ephemeral.

            Xavier is lying prone beneath her, and she can smell the stench of his blood, feel the moist coolness of it against her cheek and her hands.  It is wetter than her tears.  She stopped crying a long time ago - she can't say when, minutes or hours - but she hasn’t left his side.  She still can't let go of the twisted hope that somewhere, somehow, he's still alive.  She's searched the astral plane, and he isn't there.  Still, she doesn’t give up hope.  She can't believe that her teacher, her mentor - the only man whose words had ever touched the barren, hollow core inside her - could be gone.

            She sits up.

            For the first time she sees him, sees his bruised and battered face, staring up into her own as though to impart some final words of comfort to her, words that would now find no articulation.  The red bloom on his shirt is cool and sticky.  It has left its imprint on her hands, her cheek, her heart.  And yet still she stares down at him with the expression of a child who knows and yet cannot believe that a parent will never come back.  As if she could will him back to life just through the power of her glance.

            “C'mon, kid.”

            A soldier is behind her, poking her in the back with the butt of his rifle.  He's getting impatient; she can feel it.  She can feel the tendrils of his psyche snaking out towards her, prickly, like needles puncturing her skin, making her flesh goosepimple.  She says nothing.

            “C'mon, get up.” He prods her in the back again. “You don’t know how lucky you are, mutie. Dr. Campbell's decided he has uses for you.  Hey, are you listenin' to me?  Get up!”

            She doesn’t care.  She doesn’t care what this doctor wants with her, she doesn’t even care if the soldier shoots her right now, on the spot.  She lifts her face, sees a grey expanse of sky and rainfall, charging down towards her from the heavens - she wants to open her arms to it, she wants to welcome it into the very depths of her being.  She closes her eyes and opens her mouth.  She tastes the rain on her tongue, wild, feral, the flavour of creation, of passion, of life.  Something flares inside her, and for some reason she is happy, indescribably happy and she has no reason to be but it's so powerful she can feel it thrumming through her heart, her throat, her eyes…

            “Did you hear me, mutie?  Get the fuck up!”

            The soldier grabs her by the upper arm, forces her to her feet.  She lets him.  The feeling has dissipated - she feels nothing now, she is empty.  The soldier clamps something tight and metallic round her neck - a power disrupter - then guides her away roughly, and she makes no resistance.  As she walks away through the charred rubble of Xavier's mansion, she sees the bodies.

            Warren, Bobby, Illyana, Kurt, Alison…

            She averts her eyes, she stops looking.

            She can't deal with the possibility that there's no one left but her.

            The doctor is standing in what used to be the hallway, a little way from the general ruckus of the soldiers who still secure the place.  He smiles when he sees her, smiles in a way she finds repugnant.  He is dressed smartly in a suit, not a lab-coat; but his hair is long and shaggy, his features are harsh and prematurely lined, his chin is obscured by thick, black, bristling facial hair.  She stares at him.

            _Bluebeard…_

            “Allow me to introduce myself,” he greets her; his voice is low, gruff and insidious. “My name is Dr. Campbell, but you, my dear, may call me Ahab.  I'm a geneticist, just like your old friend Xavier.  And you are Rachel Summers, am I right?  The daughter of the famous Scott Summers and Jean Grey?” He chuckles to himself, reaches out and touches her chin.  His touch repulses her and she shrugs him away disdainfully.  But there is no anger on his face.  Again he merely chuckles.

            “A feisty one, eh?  Excellent.  I have need of someone like you, Rachel.  Ah, believe me, there are not a few people who would sell their very souls to get their hands on you, but, thanks to a little careful manoeuvring on the part of myself and Mr. Trask, from this day forward you will effectively cease to exist.  Everyone will believe that you were killed in today's culling, just like the rest of you X-people.”

            She stares up at him, defiant; nevertheless her heart is sinking, drowning…

            Because she _can't_ be the last, she _can't_ be the only one left…

            Ahab chuckles again, turns, gestures for her to follow.  She does so, hearing footsteps following her, feeling the barrels of guns trained upon her back.  She looks back, only once. 

            She sees the human-sized bundles dotted across the hill.

            I am the last, she thinks.  I am the last X-Man.

            God help me.

 -oOo-

            Rogue resurfaced as if from water, opening her eyes again to find herself half propped up against a tree clutching her broken arm, gasping for breath.  She wasn’t sure how long she'd been standing there, but it couldn’t have been very long since she was still in the forest surrounding the Hound pens, and she could still hear the compound's siren wailing in the background.  She was only dimly aware of her own consciousness, fighting for dominance - Rachel was even stronger than Remy had been, and her own memories, her own experiences were still raging through Rogue's head like a storm over an ocean, while Rogue bobbed, virtually unheeded, in the epicentre.

            She knew why.  Rachel wanted out.  For the past six years she'd been nothing more than Ahab's puppet, brainwashed and tortured into submission, made to live a life of horrors a hundred times worse than what Rogue herself had experienced - and she had been conscious of the monstrosities she had been complicit in the entire time.

            Rachel wanted what Rogue wanted.

            She wanted to be free, she wanted to be whole and human once more.  She wanted to break free of her cocoon, she wanted to live, she wanted to _be_.

            She was fighting Rogue's mind for dominance.

            And there was no way in hell Rogue was ever going to allow that.

            _Nuh-uh, sugah, this is mah body and Ah'm keepin' it._

            The storms were raging, railing against her, but Rogue closed her eyes, focused on the epicentre, shielding herself against the onslaught, feeling it buckle against her yet refusing to balk.

            _Stay still, honey, Ah don't wanna fight you.  Ah'm tired and Ah'm weak, but Ah ain't gonna budge.  This ain't your body, it's mine.  Your own's okay, Ah didn’t hurt it.  You'll wake up soon, and you'll probably be able to break free of Ahab's brainwashin' now that Ah've broken into your mind.  But Ah need a little favour in return, Rae.  Ah need to siphon off a little of your power, okay?  Just a little.  Please?_

            It took a phenomenal amount of willpower just to reason with the storm inside of her but it worked; little by little it began to abate, to disintegrate, until there was nothing left but a stark, lingering calm. Her psyche was back in the neatly ordered chaos Raven had taught her to keep it in.  Permission had been granted.

            Rachel's power was hers.

            Rogue opened her eyes, feeling the strange new mutant ability flow into her veins.  It felt different to anything she had ever felt before, heady and exhilarating and terrifying.  Whereas with Irene's powers Rogue had been able to see Time, now Rogue could _sense_ it.  And it was tangible as matter, all-encompassing as space, it was seeping through every pore in her body, flooding her organs, thrumming through her heart and her brain.  It was everywhere, and she could touch it.  She could _control_ it.

            She glanced about her, her breathing choppy.  Pain was searing through every limb she possessed, aching dully through her brain, taking over the first flush of euphoria Rachel's power had afforded her.  She was in the depths of the wood; whilst under Rachel's psyche, she'd travelled as far as her wounded leg would allow.  Rachel's desperation to escape had carried her this far.  From here on in it was down to her, and she had precious little time before Rachel's powers ran out.

            No time to waste.  She trudged back up the hill, dragging her injured leg behind her.  A fifteen-centimetre length of metal piping was impaled in her thigh, but she knew better than to remove it.  Already the wound was bleeding profusely, and if she gouged out the spear she wouldn’t be around for much longer.  But she'd lost enough blood already.  Her limbs were cold and numb; her vision was blurred a sickly tint of yellow and she had to consciously fight back the urge to vomit.  Several times on her path she stumbled, barely able to pick herself up again.  To lie down, to fall asleep, to never wake up again… How tempting it would be…

            But she couldn’t.  She wouldn’t.  Every time she got up again it took her minutes to do so, but she wasn’t going to give up.  She grit her teeth and soldiered on, up the hill, towards the bank where all this had begun… Back to him.  Back to the only reason she had left. 

            And Rachel's powers were already fading.  She hadn't made contact long enough.  Time was starting to become invisible again, it was starting to fade, it's indomitable flow was becoming as faint as feathers brushing against her skin, against her face and her soul and she was never going to reach him in time, she was never going to reach him in time to take him away, take them _both_ away from _everything_ …

            The Hounds were baying again.  There were noises in the woods, shouts and calls, this time from humans.  They were closing in on her, and she wasn’t fast enough.  She tripped again, biting on snow.  Another few inches forward and she would be over onto the bank, and Remy would be lying there, waiting for her.  And Time was cobwebs tickling her flesh, making her hairs stand on end, flowing away…

            “Please…”

            She propped herself up on her right arm, muscles pistoning, grinding, sweat on her forehead, her vision darkening, footsteps nearby and she was on her feet, she was stumbling forward, her eyes moist and stinging…

            “ _Please…_ ”

            She could feel the voices around her, the psyches of six guards infringing onto the periphery of her fading telepathic vision, and she knew with a gut-wrenching certainty that she couldn’t make it, she would _never_ make it…

            She pressed on, hauled herself up over onto the bank, seeing his inert form lying in the snowdrift only three metres away, just out of reach.

            …And Time was dragging the guards towards her inexorably, and she could feel the moment approaching, as certain as the tides, as certain as birth and life and death…

            A gunshot broke the stillness of the woods, echoing like a volcanic eruption, bringing fresh clumps of snow raining down all around her from the tree canopies above.  She heard the muffled cry of a man behind her; then another gunshot, and another - she didn’t dare heed it.  With all the willpower she possessed she focused on reaching that one unmoving bundle in the snow, and she wasn’t going to give in until she did.  One metre… Two metres… Nearly there… And it was going, it was fading, she could feel nothing…

            _Please, one more minute, one more minute so Ah can take us away… Please, it's not fair, Ah can do it, Ah_ know _Ah can, Ah just need one more minute…_

            More gunshots.  And suddenly she was there again, back in that mansion, feeling the explosion in her back and time stretching on into infinity, with every moment bleeding into eternity, and for an instant that lasted forever she saw, she understood… She understood that everything existed already, and that all she had ever had to do was reach out and grasp it with her own two hands…

            And she was.  She was stumbling, she was reaching out with her unbroken hand, she was falling against him, pressing her cheek against his, feeling his breath on her lips, feeling him _live_ …

            And Time was a myriad of threads, vibrating, thrumming, pulsing, brushing past her, whipping in an unknown wind, fluttering away…

            “Please!”

            She was struggling, struggling to snatch those threads back, trying desperately to catch them and rein them in, to _will_ them towards her…

            “…No…No… _Please_ no…”

            And they were slipping out of her hands, and she was losing it… another world, another time, the place she'd always wanted, the Remy she'd always wanted, the Rogue she'd always wanted to _be_ …

            And then it was gone.

            Rachel's power had left her and so had any hope of leaving this cold, dead world behind.

            She slumped, her mouth opening in an inarticulate moan of fear and rage and despair.

            “ _Nonononononono……_ ”

            Anguish.  Anguish in the very core of her being as she buried her face in his chest and wept.  Anguish as she felt the last vestiges of Rachel's powers slip from her like a snake shedding its skin.  No more.  No more running away.  No more haven.  No more sanctuary.  No more life worth living.

           

            The Rogue she could have been sailed away on the tide, never to return.

 -oOo-

            She remained there cradled against him for what felt like a very long time.  Then she felt the others behind her, even before they spoke.  Their footsteps in the snow, the stench of cordite and the click of Pyro's lighter.  The world was slowly coming to again.

            “I thought I might find you here,” the same calm, frosty voice of Mystique spoke behind her.

            She sat up slowly, her limbs heavy and burning.

            “Did Irene--?” she began, but Raven interrupted her.

            “Yes.  She told me everything.  On the way down.”

            So.  Irene had known her secret and had kept it until the last possible moment…

            “A second longer,” Rogue whispered, “and Ah would've been able to skim us both away…”

            “Quite.” Raven spoke softly, distastefully. “The things we do for love…”

            Rogue stared down at him, the beautiful face, the cold, blue lips that had kissed her pain away so many times.

            _I'm willin' t' take de risk, chere.  Are you?_

            “Always…” she whispered.

            She half-turned, looked back over her shoulder.  Mystique's stern expression, Forge's guarded one, Dom's frowning one, St. John's sneering one.  Some things never changed, no matter how far you ran to hide from them all.  That, at least, was one certainty.

            “Ahab's men?” she asked.

            “We took care of them,” Mystique replied grimly, raising her gun - a hefty-looking contraption of Forge's, no doubt.

            “And Rachel?”

            Raven's mouth twitched.

            “Gone.”

            Rogue looked back down at Remy again.  Gone as in taken back into the compound by Ahab, or gone as in escaped into the wilderness?  Did it matter?

            “Ah absorbed her,” she murmured. “Ah know how her powers work… Ah think maybe Ah weakened Ahab's control on her, destabilised it if not broke it all together… Maybe she might find her way to us in the end after all…”

            Raven grunted.  To her this was just another bodged job, and despite everything, Rogue knew she was going to be in the doghouse again.  She knew she deserved it.  She'd risked exposure of the Brotherhood, risked her own life and Remy's.  She'd played a dangerously selfish gambit and failed.  Ahab and Trask probably had their mark now.  There'd be another inevitable bout of running, of hide-and-seek.  And Remy… he would have Essex to contend with.  She didn’t want to think what Sinister would do to _any_ of them for that matter.

            She didn’t know where she found the strength left but she pushed herself onto her feet, and only as she did so did it occur to her how much blood she must have lost.  Her injured leg felt almost dead; to all intents and purposes, her dislocated arm may as well not have been there at all.  And something wasn’t right with her vision…

            She staggered; the next moment she felt Mystique's arm on her, propping her up against her own strong, lithe body.  When Rogue looked up into her face it was like looking through clouded glass.

            “Promise me somethin',” she mumbled.

            “What?” Raven asked.  Rogue drew in a beleaguered breath, answered wearily: “Say we'll take Remy back with us.”

            Raven's eyes flashed.

            “Rogue, you're wounded, you're not thinking straight…”

            “Ah've never thought so clearly in all my life.  You leave him here, he'll die.”

            “Once Sinister realises what's gone down here, he'll be as good as dead anyway.”

            “Then at least let him stay until he's okay.  Please.  Otherwise you can leave me out here with him too.”

            There was a silence - Mystique stared at her, her gaze burning - but Rogue didn’t feel it at all.

            “You do know what you're asking from me, don’t you?” she spoke, though the edge had gone out of her voice.

            “We can hide from Essex, and besides, you're more than his match, momma.  Please.”

            She swayed again, feeling her legs give way; Raven held her upright with an effort.

            “Rogue, we need to get you patched up…”

            “ _Please_ …”

            _Ah ain't leavin' his side again…_

            Raven's eyes were still burning.

            “All right,” she said.

            Rogue managed a smile.

            “Thanks, momma…”

            And then she sank into welcome unconsciousness.

-oOo-


	26. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue and Gambit both deal with the fall out of their abortive mission at the Hound Pens, and finally get to a point where they can contemplate a future together...

            Suddenly, there was sunlight.

            Sunlight searing its way across the tail end of a dreamless sleep whose beginning he could not remember.

            Remy opened his eyes and tasted it like a man lost at sea.  Flinching, uncertain, and with the tentative curiosity of a newborn.  An expanse of ceilinged whiteness encompassed his world, greeting him with clinical and objective impassivity.  He had no reference for this.  No reference with which to place himself here, lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, his head pounding with an ache that should have been recognisable but was not.

            He stared up at the ceiling and squinted.

            There was a crack in the whiteness; a haphazard, zigzagging crack that meandered its way across the periphery of his vision in a solitary pattern that he felt as though he had seen before.  He blinked and followed it slowly, searching for a link, searching for a connection to bridge the gaping void, finding nothing.  Finding only the dull ache in his head, behind his eyes, replaying itself like a memory begging to be retraced, with all the intensity of an impatient lover.

            That was when it came back.  Lying in the snow with a knife in his hand and _her_ beneath him… and then the pain in his head, exploding out of nowhere before he'd tumbled gracelessly into blackness…

            _Rogue_.

            Remy touched his forehead gingerly.  His fingers found and explored the memory of an old wound, an uneven tract of scar tissue that unfurled and blossomed into a tight crescendo of pain.  Wincing, he raised a hand to the sunlight and stared at his fingers, expecting to see blood staining the tips - but there was nothing.

            He dropped his hand again, closing his eyes, feeling the scar she'd left him throb with a dull, consuming ache.  The irony was not lost on him.  Rogue had been willing to die at his hand in order to save Rachel.  And he… he had been willing to do anything in his power to keep Rogue alive.  Simple math.  It hadn't needed a genius and a degree in rocket science to figure out where his priorities lay.

            Yet somehow she'd still figured that he'd been willing to off her out of some twisted obligation he held to an egotistical maniac.

            And the knowledge of that stung.

            Remy sat up against the pillows, wincing as his head jarred painfully, and looked around.  Walls of cracked plaster, dingy and cobwebbed, enclosing a room that was empty but for the bed he lay on, a low table and medical supplies.  A window opposite, masked only by threadbare curtains of a faded floral design that did little to contain the light.  He squinted in the unfamiliar brightness.  Okay, so this wasn’t any of his apartments.  It wasn’t anywhere he knew, and even though he'd been in a lot of bedrooms he would've remembered this one.  He opened his mouth slowly as if testing an unknown invention; when his voice came out it was unrecognisable, hoarse and cracked.

            “Where de fuck…?”

            “Brotherhood headquarters,” an icy voice to his left promptly replied. “The latest one, anyhow.”

            _Nice,_ he thought vaguely, tiredly, and even his own thoughts seemed to be tinged with a strangely bitter taste. _Question answered before y’ even have de time to spit it out.  ‘S shapin’ up to be a good mornin’.  Or whatever de hell time it is._   He turned as much as his aching bones would allow, and wasn’t surprised when he saw Raven Darkholme standing in the doorway.

            “Water.” He pieced the syllables together with an effort. “M' thirsty.”

            Raven didn’t break a smile.  He hadn't expected her to.  Instead she crossed over to the low table, picked up a jug of water standing there, and poured it into a dirty cup standing nearby.  When she handed it to him, he drank it.  It rolled down his throat with the flavour of copper and chlorine, but he couldn’t remember the last time anything had tasted so sweet.

            “Didn’t t'ink you could be so generous,” he thanked her begrudgingly; his voice didn’t hurt so much anymore.   He handed her back the mug; she laid it on the table and stared at him coldly.

            “You have my daughter to thank for that,” she returned frostily.  She paused and stared at him a little more intently, reminding him briefly of a mantis. “She loves you, LeBeau,” she finally stated, unable to hide the contempt from her voice. “That makes her a fool, but I suppose it makes her a noble one.”

            He said nothing, but his face said everything.  A corner of her mouth curled.

            “But then, I don’t suppose you'd know much about nobility, would you thief?”

            “And _you_ would?”

            “You ruined my daughter.”

            “So did you.”

            Quiet.  Mystique's face convulsed, then crumpled in on itself.  She turned and faced the sunlight - her silence told him he'd won.

            “Are you gonna throw me out now?” he asked her disdainfully.

            She almost looked back over her shoulder at him.

            “Much as I'd love to throw you back to Sinister, if you're going to leave this place, it's going to be of your own volition, LeBeau.”

            “And is that choice something I owe Rogue too?”

            Again, Raven remained silent.  And he was getting frustrated.

            “Where is she?” he asked.

            “She's next door.  Recovering.” Before he could make any comment on that she'd turned to him. “You don’t know how much that girl was willing to sacrifice for the both of you, do you?  And I don’t suppose you'll be grateful for it either.”

            He ignored her jibing.

            “You mean… she didn’t…?”

            “Carry through with the mission? No.” Raven's eyes were blazing again. “She screwed the whole goddamn thing up!  Years of careful planning, years of quiet machination, years of striving towards the _one end purpose_ , and she threw it all away!  For _you_!” She spat out the word with a revulsion she could barely contain, and there was a light, a madness, a despair in her eyes…

            He swallowed.

            _Merde, Rogue…_

            “What did she…?”

            “She couldn’t break Rachel's brainwashing alone,” Raven interrupted before he could ask the question. “So she did the next best thing - she absorbed her herself.  She was going to use Rachel and her powers for entirely selfish purposes.  She was going to chronoskim the two of you out of here - to God knows where.  Anywhere, I suppose, that wasn’t _here_.” She finished, her chest visibly heaving with rage, but after a moment she held it down, closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. “She could have lost her life, but I don’t expect she would've cared about that either,” she continued in a bitter undertone. “Luckily we came just in time to despatch of the guards - even a couple of Hounds - grab the two of you, and make a quick exit - thanks to Forge.  I thought I was going to lose her all over again.” She opened her eyes and he was surprised to see real tears in them. “I've already lost one child, goddammit, and I'm not going to lose Rogue, not even if there's hell to pay!”

            She glanced away, her jaw tightening, and for the first time he realised that, deranged as Mystique was, she really did love Rogue. 

            “Is she okay?” he asked at last, uncertainly.

            “She's still unconscious,” Raven murmured. “But she'll be fine.  As for this world, as for this timeline… who knows?”

            She turned away again, paced the room in a disconnected, agitated air while he sat and mulled over everything she had told him.  Ever since he'd walked into the Brotherhood's operations room and seen Rogue sitting there, he'd been banking on one thing.  That the Brotherhood was going to make it.  He had had no intention of bringing Rachel back to Sinister, not now that he knew exactly _why_ Sinister needed the Hounds in the first place.  He _knew_ Sinister now.  He had him figured.  His demented scheming revolved around one thing - Jean Grey and Scott Summers.  The quest to find the ultimate super being, the highest pinnacle of evolution, the ultimate mutant – Rachel.  And Remy wanted out.  He wanted out, he wanted to be free, he wanted to be responsible only for himself.  He was done with working for Sinister.  He was done with small steps.  He was done with Sentinels and Hounds and anti-mutant governments.  He was going to walk away from it all.

            Give Sinister the finger, hand Rachel over to the enemy and saunter off.

            And if the Brotherhood was right, maybe Rachel _could_ have fixed the world.  Maybe she _could_ have made it better.  Maybe his renegade plan would've been worth something.  If Rogue hadn't gone and fucked it all up, for some pipe dream that so nearly could've come true.

            For a better _them_.

            Remy sat up and pulled the comforter aside.  His legs were weak but they were still there.  He sat on the edge of the bed and gathered his strength.  Mystique stopped pacing and stared at him.

            “Where are you going?” she demanded.  There was a harshness in her voice, but also a fear.  A fear of what?

            “To have a smoke,” he answered wearily, defiantly. “M' dyin' for a smoke.”

            He stepped into his boots, got up and pulled on his trench coat, which had been hanging on the door.  He was only wearing his boxers underneath, but he didn’t care how ridiculous he looked.  He patted his pockets, feeling his cigarette packet and lighter.

            _Well whaddya know?  We're back in business._

            He reached out and put his hand on the doorknob just as Raven asked him irately; “That's it?!  You're just gonna walk out of here?”

            “Mystique, you an' I both know you're dyin' t' boot me outta dis place for good, even though it ain't your call.  Figured I'd do us both a favour and get outta your hair.”

            “We're not finished yet, LeBeau,” she seethed behind him.

            “Yes, we are.  I'm here under sufferance until you convince Rogue to kick me to de kerb.  Seems pretty clear-cut t' me.”

            He swivelled the doorknob, ready to go.

            “Tell me if you love her,” Raven suddenly spat out behind him.

            He paused.

            “I don’t trust you, LeBeau, and I don’t believe for one second that you could ever make her happy,” she continued, and this time there was an eagerness, a desperation in her voice that surprised him. “But if you tell me you love her, we can forget our differences and you can stay.  If you don’t and if this is all just a game…If _she's_ just a game to you… then you can walk out of this house whenever the hell you want - the sooner the better.”

            He opened the door.

            “Do you love her?!” Mystique's high-pitched voice demanded, but he didn’t answer, he walked over the threshold and slammed the door shut firmly behind him.

 -oOo-

            It was snowing again.  Thick clumps sailing across the window without a care in the world.  Rogue stared at the dancing flakes and tried a smile.  Her heart was heavier these days, and yet more unburdened than it had ever been - she dreamed a lot of Time, of the indescribable feel of it, of the ability to master it and subjugate it to her every whim.  Each snowflake fluttering past her window seemed to represent another world to her, unknown, untouchable, inexplicably beautiful in itself.  Another Rogue who had walked a happier path was out there, somewhere.  She was near, she was close enough to touch and yet she was too far away to see.  But then, she supposed, it was enough that she was out there, and that there was a happy Rogue at all.  It gave her hope that within her own future, all was not lost.

            “Ah need to get outta this bed,” she spoke up decidedly. “Bein' an invalid makes me think too darn much.  Ah'm startin' t' get the feelin' that Raven's prolongin' mah stay here because she likes nursin' me.”

            Sitting beside her, Remy laughed, charming and easy as always.  He lightened the monotony of the days for her, but nevertheless something had changed between them and she couldn’t tell what it was.

            “She jes' likes playin' de over-protective mother, chere,” he drawled. “Can't fault her for dat.”

            “Pfft,” Rogue grunted. “Her attempt at over-protective mother comes across more like a chainsaw-wieldin' maniac.”

            “And I ain't gonna disagree wit' you on dat one.  Your mom's one scary lady, Rogue.”

            She raised an eyebrow.

            “You only just noticed?”

            “Hmph.  T'ink I noticed de time she tried t' kill de X-Men back on de Golden Gate Bridge eight years ago.  You remember dat?”

            She laughed.

            “You kiddin'?  How could Ah ever forget the first time you asked me out to dinner?”

            “No better time than a life-threatenin' situation to get a girl to say yes to you,” he remarked suavely.  She pouted at him.

            “Ah was the one who saved _your_ ass that day, remember?” She sighed and stared out of the window again. “Seems a lifetime ago…”

            “It was a lifetime ago, chere,” he pointed out.  She didn’t reply.  Sometimes she had the sense that, severe as her injuries had been, none was as grave as the one that had been dealt to her heart.  It was for this reason that she often fell into deep silences.  He had become accustomed to them.  Quietly he leaned over, toyed with the butterfly pendant at her breast.  It was the one thing that still lay unbroken between them.

            “You’re gonna go, aren’t you,” she stated softly, still watching the snowfall.  He gazed at her profile for a long moment, then nodded.

            “When de wanderin' mood sets in, yeah, I guess so.” He stared at the butterfly between his fingers thoughtfully. “Much as your hospitality is appreciated, dis house gives me de heebie-jeebies… or maybe it's just Raven…”

            “Or maybe you just don’t wanna get bored,” she finished for him.

            “Maybe.” His mouth twisted wryly.

            “It's okay,” she assured him. “Ah don’t want yah t' stay.  Domesticated Gambit don’t do much for me.”

            It was meant as a joke, but he didn’t laugh.

            “Rogue… dere's some stuff I gotta sort out on de road…”

            “Like Sinister?” she asked. He looked up at her sharply.

            “How did you know?”

            She shrugged evasively. “Just a hunch.” She paused and looked up into his eyes. “You ain't stayin' here to hide from Sinister, are you?  Because you don’t really believe he's gonna kill you, do you?”

            He stared at her a long while, his mouth set in a straight line; then he shook his head.

            “No.  I don’t t'ink he will.  For some reason, Rogue, he _needs_ me.  For what, I dunno.  But I mean somethin' to him, and I don’t like dat fact.  It leaves too many questions unanswered - about myself.”

            “You said he rescued you from the mansion that day,” she probed gently.

            “Oui.  I was meant to be infiltratin' de X-Men for him… wasn’t doin' a very good job of it by all accounts… thought he'd be pissed.  But then he managed to get wind of de military's attack and pulled me out de mornin' it happened… It was stupid of me, but I never questioned it at de time… was too fuckin' grateful, I guess.”

            She nodded.  He averted his gaze from hers, looking once more to the butterfly between his fingers.

            “If I'd'a known what was goin' down dat day, I wouldn't have high-tailed it like I did.  Would've warned you all, if Sinny had given me a chance to… But by de time I found out, it was too late… I wanted to go back and find you, but I figured you were dead… Maybe it was easier to t'ink dat…”

            She touched his hand gently.

            “It's okay,” she murmured. “Ah guess things worked out kind of okay in the end anyhow.” She paused, added tentatively: “Ah know how you feel about me, Remy.”

            He smiled then, wry as ever, let go of the butterfly and settled back in his chair.

            “Subtlety's never been one of my finer points,” he remarked dryly.

            She smiled.

            “You told me.  Ah believed you.”

            “Still doesn’t make sense why you'd crack me over de head wit' a rock after I said it,” he half-joked.

            “Think about it.  Ah'd set myself up to make a big sacrifice for the future generations, and you give me a reason to go on livin'.  What was Ah s'pposed to do?”

            “I dunno.  Kiss me passionately and walk off into a dusky sundown?”

            “Ick.”

            “Woulda been preferable to concussion and a fractured skull.  And to you nearly gettin' your leg amputated.”

            She frowned.

            “Don’t remind me.”

            “So why'd you do it?”

            She thought a moment.

            “Ah guess you were offerin' me the only thing in the world Ah ever wanted,” she answered slowly. “And suddenly Ah had to make a choice between savin' the world and savin' what Ah wanted.”

            He grimaced.

            “And duty won out?”

            “At first.  But when Ah thought Ah'd killed you… Ah realised Ah couldn’t have done it, not without you.  Ah couldn’t carry on the mission if you weren't gonna be there to do it with me.” She paused, stared out of the window once more.  The snow had thinned, was flitting like sawdust to the ground. “You were s'pposed to make it,” she murmured. “You were s'pposed to get to Rachel, even if it meant killin' me in the process.” She looked at him again. “Ah knew you wouldn’t give her to Sinister.  Ah knew you'd cut her loose.”

            His expression softened.

            “You really believed I could've hurt you?” he asked, looking a little offended.

            “Well, after what you did to Kincaid… And Guess…”

            “So you're tellin' me dose guys coulda held a candle to you?” he voiced in disbelief. “Chere, you piss me off sometimes, but I ain't gon' kill you 'cos of it.” She couldn’t help it.  She laughed.

            _Ah was so stupid… Of course he wouldn’t have done it.  But back then… with all the bullshit he came out with about bein' in the business… About not bein' able to feel, about havin' no attachments… Ah bought into it.  It seemed so real.  But sittin' here with him, like this… It's hard t' believe we ever pushed one another away so hard…_

            And yet they both knew instinctively that there was a moment when _both_ had thought they would kill the other…

            …That it was the only way either could have held onto the other forever.

            An awkward silence followed, one that engulfed them as each digested this sombre realisation.  But then he smiled, and it was as if the thought had never occurred to them.

            “Think I'm gonna go now,” he said softly. “Let you get some sleep.”

            “Ah don't wanna sleep,” she protested grumpily, although in truth she _was_ tired…

            “Raven's waitin' outside, I can feel it,” he grinned. “And if I don’t come out soon she's gonna get suspicious.”

            “Let her,” she murmured, holding onto the lapel of his coat, not wanting him to go. “Ah don’t care.”

            “Rogue…” he reached out and touched her cheek tenderly, “you need some rest.  And I really don’t wanna get m' ass whupped by Mystique again.”

            “Liar,” she muttered with a pout. “You could have Raven any day, she knows it, Ah know it, and you know it.  Yah just wanna be on the road again…”

            “I'll be back,” he assured her.

            “One day, you won't.”

            He said nothing but smiled, kissed her forehead, got up and left quietly.  Rogue sighed and shifted onto her side.  Outside the snow was faltering, dwindling to tiny white spots flitting pitifully across a patch of grey sky.  Soon it would be gone altogether, just as all the threads of Time had fluttered past her and disappeared out of reach.  She thought of Rachel; she wondered where she was and what she was doing, and whether she really would become a mutant saviour, the heroine of a blind old woman's prophecy.

            She wondered about the phoenix she'd once seen at the very end of Irene's Diaries, and whether she'd simply dreamed what she had witnessed when she had absorbed her foster-mother what seemed such a long time ago.

            _The phoenix, rising from the ashes.  The symbol of rebirth, of resurrection, of new beginnings._

            Maybe there _was_ hope.  Maybe she could have her own personal phoenix and make her penance after all.  Maybe she could silence the voices in her head, and finally lay Kincaid and Rifkind and Guess and Xavier and all the others to rest.

           

            She stared up at the window.  The snow had stopped.

           

            Closing her eyes, she slept.

 -oOo-

            By the beginning of February, the edge had gone off the winter – the snows had stopped, and the world was beginning to thaw.

            He came back to see her, now and then.  She didn’t know where he was or what he did when he was away, but as always, she found she could bear it as long as he was doing whatever made him happy.  Not once, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, had she ever envisaged a happily-ever-after for the both of them.  Somehow it was enough to know that they possessed a connection stronger than their separations.  Sometimes, she thought, it was better for them to be apart, so that they didn’t hurt each other anymore.

            Still, it didn’t stop her from wishing for something more.

           

            By February's end, the voices had stopped haunting her altogether, and she was up on her feet once more.  Their new headquarters were often silent and empty - Mystique and the others still occupied themselves with 'the cause', and spent most days out on missions - and so Rogue often had the place to herself, with the exception of Irene, who spent most of her time holed up in her study anyhow.  Although technically Rogue was fit enough to participate in 'the business' once more, Raven didn’t push her into it.  There seemed to be a tacit understanding between them that something in Rogue had changed and her place was no longer truly with the Brotherhood.  It wasn’t a conscious decision on Rogue's part to draw that line between herself and the others; rather it was a gut feeling inside her, a thing that manifested itself gradually over time.  Even she didn’t know what the difference was, but it was there.  She spent more time in her room, by the window, thinking.  There were times when she felt Raven's eyes on her back, boring into her, considering her, wondering what the new Rogue was and what she would do.  But Rogue could give no answers, because she didn’t know either.

            She wondered, sometimes, whether Irene was the better person to ask.

           

            At last the time she'd been waiting for came; the familiar purr of his motorcycle outside on the driveway, the tread of his boots on the gravel.  This time she went down to greet him; she put her arms round him and they kissed without saying a word.  Then she took him by the sleeve and led him into the house - for the first time they ate together and talked together and laughed together just as it always should have been.  But she sensed a change in him too, one she couldn’t pinpoint; a restlessness, an inner agitation that manifested itself in his sudden silences, his absent gazes, his plaintive expressions.  She had expected it all, of course, and it made her a little sad; but she had long come to accept that he was a slave to his whims, that if there was one thing he was born to do it was to be fickle, to roam.

           

            Later they made love.

            There were no more heartfelt fumblings, no more desperate kisses.  They had all the time in the world, and it felt good.  It felt so good she thought the world was going to stop.  For a few precious hours, she'd never felt so happy in her entire life.

            Afterwards they lay there tangled together as she let herself drift into sleep without fear of losing him again come the morning.  When she woke up an indeterminable amount of time later, it was to find the room shrouded in darkness and him still awake, his hand in her hair.

            “Yah still 'wake?” she mumbled drowsily.

            “I'm an insomniac at de best of times,” he rumbled back comically.  She chuckled and ran the back of her hand absently against his bicep.

            “Sugah, yah thin way too much,” she noted wryly.

            He made no assent or disagreement.  After a while she placed her hand on his chest and stroked him lightly, running her fingers inquisitively over the maze of old scar tissue that marked his flesh.  It felt good, to touch without being afraid.

            “What’s it like?” she asked him sleepily. “On the outside?  Has anythin' changed?”

            He was silent a moment.

            “Nope.”

            “Ah thought not.” She yawned. “Mystique and the others talk about it sometimes, but Ah try not to listen.  Maybe Ah'm scared of goin' back out there.” She paused and opened her eyes, her finger tracing the dip in his collarbone. “Ah feel bad for not helpin' the Brotherhood out anymore,” she continued thoughtfully, “but Ah guess Ah finally figured out it ain't for me - that it never was for me in the first place.”

            He looked down at her, his fingers gently cradling the nape of her neck.

            “So what are you gonna do now?”

            She stared at her finger, resting ghostly and pale upon his flesh, her brow furrowed.

            “Ah dunno.”

            And she really _didn’t_ know…

            His fingers began to move again, massaging her with a languid cadence.  And suddenly she had a question.

            “Did you find Sinister?”

            He frowned and shook his head.

            “Nope.  I looked, o' course, but when I got to his place, he was gone.  Guess he found out what happened down at de Hound pens and took precautions in case de government traced t'ings back to him.  De whole place was trashed, dere wasn’t anyt'ing left.”

            “And you haven’t heard from him?” she persisted.

            “Non.  But I get de feelin' he’ll call me, when he needs me,” he answered wryly.

            “And if he does… you'll go back to him?”

            He thought about it.

            “I dunno.  Fact is, I don’t owe him a thing anymore, chere.  He knows it, I know it.  But he’ll be back, one way or another.  I got somethin' he wants, and when I find out what it is…”

            He trailed off, lost once more in his own thoughts.  She knew it was best not to push the subject.  When she had absorbed him, she'd got an inkling, the faintest intimation that his relationship with Sinister bothered him more than he was ever willing to reveal.  Because there was something deeper in that relationship than even Remy himself couldn’t understand, and probably never would.

            _On the contrary, my dear boy, I find myself quite attached to you… in more ways than one… …_

           

            Outside rain had begun to fall; the air was cooler now, making her shudder pleasurably, making her draw closer to him for warmth.

            “Nights like these,” she whispered, “they remind me of Storm.”

            He held her close.

            “Me too.”

            She wondered if Forge was awake, and whether he thought so too.  She wondered whether Storm was alive somewhere, waiting for someone to come, waiting for _them_.  And suddenly she thought, _Ah'm gonna find you, Storm, Ah'm gonna find you and all the others that are left.  Ah promise_.

            The promise gave her strength somehow.  She _had_ a purpose, and it didn’t need to be dictated by some diaries or visions or hopeless prophecies.  Her life held some meaning after all.

            “Have you been back to the safe house?” she asked him in a sudden whisper - even though she didn’t really need to hear the reply.  Somehow, she knew the answer already.

            “No,” he returned.  She nodded.  There was no reason to go back, not anymore.  But she would miss it, in a way.  She would miss their little cocoon, their little safe haven, the place that had hidden them for so long.

            “Ah’ll miss it,” she told him decidedly.  Somehow, she could almost feel his smile penetrating the darkness.

            “Was nice, while it lasted.  We had some good times, chere.”

            Good times.  The best she could recall.  All the pain and the passion and the heartache, and yet nothing else in those few short years had ever made her so alive.  A smile flickered across her own lips, pale as a candle wavering under moonlight.  Somehow he seemed to sense it.  His palm cupped her cheek, his thumb smoothing across her lips as if to capture that smile in his hand and hold it tight.  He said nothing, made no promises.  She expected none.  Like Rachel they were free in the world now; she no longer constrained to the narrow worldview the Brotherhood advocated, he no longer bound to the man named Essex.  Neither tethered to a little room where they had played their earnest games of make-believe once a year.  The circles they had trodden – those well-worn paths that had led them back to one another time and time again – had now been left behind.  There was no reason to tread them anymore.  No reason for them to be together, here, now, except for habit and a lingering sense of mutual need.

            She wanted to ask him, _where to now?_   She wanted to ask him where his path would lead him to, whether he knew where he was headed, whether he knew what was waiting for him out there.

            She wanted to ask him if, from here on in, the path they’d walked together so far would branch off into different directions, into different futures.

            But she remained silent, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.

            His hand on the small of her back; his kiss replacing his thumb upon her lips.  She reached for him in an embrace as languid and resigned and familiar as summer siestas and sleeping out under stars.  If they were living on borrowed time she felt no sense of urgency.  Neither of them had to be here.  But they were; they were still here together, and that was all that mattered.

           

            A little while later she slept again, curled up against him like a bird, dreaming of a world that was a vast tapestry of thrumming, shining, burning, interconnecting threads; dreaming that she was a butterfly, flitting silent and luminous, overhead.

 -oOo-

            He stayed a couple more days, and it was more than she could have ever expected or asked for.  She wasn’t surprised, then, when on the morning of the third day she went outside to find him loading his few belongings onto his bike.

            “You’re goin'?” she queried, sidling up beside him.

            He secured the last of his bags to his bike and nodded.

            “Yup.  I'm hittin' de highways.  Until Essex calls on me there ain't a lot I can do round here.  S'all right for you.  Mystique's family, she’ll keep you round no matter how mad she gets at you.”

            He paused, not looking at her.  She was oddly reminded of their previous partings, furtive and reluctant.

            “You'll be stayin' in New York?” she asked quietly.

            He shrugged, non-committal.

            “I’ll go wherever I'm needed.  I'm tired of small steps, chere.  Dat kinda thing's best left to de Brotherhood, hahn?  I think I'm gonna find me some X-Men.” He paused, produced a cigarette seemingly from thin air and lit it. “You wanna come?” he asked her.  At the unexpected question she merely stood and stared at him; but he said nothing, blowing smoke, so perfectly nonchalant, waiting for her answer just like he'd waited for her to make her choice outside the Ritz nearly three years ago.

            And suddenly the incandescent flame that had awoken in her was blazing, leaping, and the animal hope was flaring once more…

            “What -- now?”

            He sucked on his cigarette and considered her through wreaths of smoke.

            “Sure.  Why not now?”

            She still couldn’t believe it.

            “You mean… _right now_?”

            He shrugged.

            “Well, I was gonna go back to my place first, pick up a few things I need.  Like cards and cigarettes maybe.  And then… I guess it's goodbye NY.” A small, conspiratorial grin touched his lips. “So.  You comin'?”

            She didn’t even have to think.

            “Ah won’t be five minutes.”

           

            She ran back to her room and threw a few of her things together - although there wasn't much to decide on, because nothing she owned really mattered anyway.  She had no connection to anything in this house, and only to very few of her possessions.  And as for the rest of the Brotherhood… they were out on a mission, and perhaps it was better that way.  There was little she could have said to them, and apart from Raven she bore no especial attachment to them.

            Raven.

            She tried not to think about her as she packed the last item of clothing into her small carryall.  Raven had twisted her, perverted her, made her into the monster she'd always dreaded becoming.  From the very first moment of their acquaintance she had used Rogue as a means to some unfathomable end.  And yet she had nurtured her, shielded her, loved her in a way Rogue had never experienced before and never would again.  She had shaped her in so many ways, made her into the person she was today.

            And for the first time, she didn’t regret it.

            She didn’t regret being Rogue at all.

            There.  She was finished.  It was better that Mystique wasn’t here, that she didn’t have to prolong the separation with farewells and the possibility of recriminating glances.  She was going her own way now.  Wherever this road took her, it was going to be _her_ choice, _her_ decision, _her_ path.  She wasn’t going to be a pawn anymore.  She wasn’t going to be an instrument of destiny any longer.

            She swung her pack on her shoulder and turned to the door.

            Somehow, she wasn’t so surprised to see Irene standing there.

            “So,” the old woman remarked in the same amiable and inoffensive tones she always did, “I see the time has come already.”

            Riddles, riddles, always riddles.  It was one thing Rogue wasn’t going to miss.

            “Ah'm leavin',” she declared, a little defensively - was Irene here to stop her, or otherwise?

            “So I see,” came the ironic reply, and yet there was a smile on that thin little mouth.  Rogue stared.

            “So you’re not gonna stop me?”

            “Would you want me to?” Irene queried with a raised eyebrow.  Rogue shook her head.

            “It wouldn’t make any difference.  Ah'm done with it, Irene.  With all of this.  Ah played out your game and y'know what?  Ah failed.  Looks like your prophecies were just wishful thinkin' after all.”

            The words were defiant, but to her surprise the smile on Irene's face didn’t even flicker.

            “On the contrary, Rogue, you did exactly what I expected you to do.  And no,” she added gently, “I don’t expect you to stay now, nor to want to.  Your job here is done, child; and so is your penance.  Are the voices not gone yet?”

            There was little left that surprised her about Irene, but she hadn't been anticipating _that_.  She knew her foster-mother expected no answer.  She looked away.  There was a long pause, thick and pregnant - presently she heard the soft tapping of Irene's cane as she crossed the creaky wooden floor towards her, felt her hand on her shoulder.

            “Did you think you'd made the wrong choice?” she questioned softly.  Still Rogue did not look at her.

            “Ah thought…”

            She paused.  She didn’t know what she had thought.  Suddenly there was a lump in her throat; but Irene's lined and aged hand patted her shoulder with a vigour that not even the strongest man would have possessed.

            “The Brotherhood doesn’t have Rachel, that is true - but perhaps it is just as well.  She is free in the world now.  Free to make her own destiny.  As are you.  As are we all.”

            It was only then that Rogue looked at her, into the pellucid eyes behind the rose-tinted glasses.

            “The phoenix…” she breathed in a hoarse and sudden rush, “is it real?”

            Something glinted behind the shades; the smile on Irene's lips was knowing.

            “The phoenix is creation, the phoenix is passion.  You feel it in your heart to be real, Rogue, because it is inside of _you_.  Of course she is real.”

            _That isn't what Ah meant…_

            “You should go,” Irene murmured. “He's waiting.”

            Rogue nodded and placed her hand over the old woman's.  It was withered and bony, but it was warm; she could feel the blood beneath the skin, pulsing inexorably onward.

            “Say goodbye to Raven for me,” she whispered. “And to Forge,” she added as an afterthought.

            “I will,” Irene nodded, smiling as if there would be no parting, as if there would be no separation and that before long Rogue would return to the fold.  For all the time that Irene had lived on this sad and sorry earth, perhaps it would not be long before they met again after all.  But for Rogue, she honestly hoped that it wouldn’t be any time soon.

            And now there really were no more goodbyes to be said.  Irene's hand dropped; she smiled once more, encouraging, and stepped aside.

            And Rogue was walking out the door without once looking back; because this time she was moving forward of her own volition, and not even the past, not even the shackles of her own memories could tie her down.

            She knew what Raven would say.

            _You'll walk a circle, Rogue._

            It didn’t matter.  In a way she had come full circle already, and if all circles inevitably led back to this point then there was nothing to fear from life anymore.  Nothing at all.

           

            It had taken her years of slog and hardship, but finally, she'd laid all her ghosts to rest.

 

            It was still something of a surprise to find him waiting for her when she got back outside; but then, he had always been there for her every morning after the night before, and whenever he had disappeared out of her life, it had always been in the knowledge that sometime, somewhere along the line, he would return.  And he _had_ returned, every time.

            She watched him a moment, standing a little way off with his back to her, still smoking, gazing off into the middle distance.  Looking at him now, with all the barriers lowered between them, she honestly didn’t know how long they would last or whether they would ever truly learn to reach out for one another.  But one thing was certain, and that was that she was going to try.

            “Ah'm ready,” she greeted him, adding her bag to the rest of his stuff.  He looked back at her and frowned.

            “Dat all you’re bringin'?” he asked.  She shrugged.

            “Ah've got everythin' that's important t' me, sugah.  Not a lot else matters.” She paused and grinned at him. “Thought you woulda preferred it if Ah didn’t bring the kitchen sink with me anyway…”

            He grunted humorously.

            “As long as you bring your beautiful self, chere, I ain't complainin'.”

            He turned and stared back into the distance.  There was something on his mind, she could sense it a mile away; but she didn’t want to pry.  She walked up beside him and followed his gaze.  The same broken buildings, the same roiling clouds, the same ashen skyline.  What he saw she didn’t think she'd ever see.  She turned slightly and tugged on his sleeve.

            “C'mon, Remy.  Let's go.”

            He turned and faced her.  It was starting to rain.

            “One last t'ing, Rogue,” he began, so seriously it took her off guard.

            “What?” she asked.  He paused; his fingers brushed her hair from her shoulder absently.

            “Your name, chere,” he murmured.

            Another memory, dredged up from a past long since abandoned, long since buried, a place no one had touched in over fifteen years, a little nugget of truth she'd never been able to confide to anybody.  Because the memory was dead, and it wasn’t her anymore - and yet it was, and it always had been, and now she didn’t know why she had hidden it away for so long.  And so she screwed up all her courage, opened her mouth and said:

            “Anna.  Anna-Marie.”

            He considered that a moment.

            “Anna, hahn?  I'll haveta get used to dat.”

            She scrunched up her nose in distaste.

            “Ah prefer Rogue.”

            “Really?” He grinned, lop-sided. “So do I.”

            She knew what he was thinking of.  That first meeting round the pool table, what seemed like a lifetime ago.  She knew because she was thinking the same thing too.  She tugged on his sleeve again.

            “Let's go,” she whispered.

            He nodded.

            He walked to the bike with her following close behind.

           

            And for the first time in her life, she had the courage to reach out and hold his hand.

 

– END OF BOOK ONE –


End file.
